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JASMINE 























One backward glance she cast 



JASMINE 

A Story of Present Day Persia 
By 

ANNA RATZESBERGER 

n 

Author of 

Camel Bells, Ali Hassan of Hamadan, etc. 



Pictures by 

KURT WIESE 


JUNIOR PRESS BOOKS 

albertWhitman 

y' 4 co 

CHICAGO 

1937 










Copyright, 1937, by 
Albert Whitman & Company 



(i(iuimvi | >it | Q |1 oMUntiliim < j * ** 




Printed in the U. S. A. 

SEP 22 1937 


109539 



























To My Father 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Go-Between Arranges a Marriage. 15 

Jasmine . 21 

The Wedding. 27 

A Bride At Home.. 36 

The End of the World and Afterward. 47 

Ramazon . 61 

No Ruz . 72 

Wishes . 81 

The Landlord’s Return. 97 

Buried Treasure .112 

Ganj Nameh .124 

Donkey Harness.135 

The Peddler’s Visit.149 

A Gift of Bread.158 

Trial Without Jury.167 

The Seeds of Idleness.179 

Shadowing the Shadower.189 

The Truth Comes Out.202 

Half of the World.208 

A Leap in the Dark.221 

Newspaper Notes.234 

The Dervish’s Tale.240 

Wishes Fulfilled .250 

Forward Steps .258 

That Which Is Musk.273 






























FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


COLOR PLATES 

FACING PAGE 

One backward glance she cast.Tide page 

The cobbler considered—silk, veil small feet, 

a servant in attendance. 54 

The centuries had left their mark on old 

Sangi-i-Sheer . 88 

Finally, there was a large group of peasants.120 

The peddler fled over the hills.160 

Farrukh went directly to the Street of the 

Mulberry Trees.206 

BLACK AND WHITE PLATES 

PAGE 

“You will watch and you will tell?”. 67 

Now the valley opened before them.103 

“Three sets! I cannot imagine who would 

buy them” .143 

Again a pebble struck the window.193 

Caught in a trap he seemed to be.225 

In many places the walls were fifty feet high.269 





































































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I 

THE GO-BETWEEN ARRANGES A MARRIAGE 

T HE vakil or go-between examined the girl 
avidly. 

“Beh! beh! beh! It is a prize, this girl! Firm 
white flesh, no freckles, no pockmarks. No scalp 
disease, a fine head of hair. A beautiful face and a 
plump, graceful figure. What more does Mustapha 
Khan want in a bride?” 

The old woman cackled delightedly as her fingers 
caressed the bare flesh of the young Persian girl. She 
could almost feel the great silver coins that were to be 

IS 


i6 


Jasmine 


hers when she carried her report to the mother of 
Mustapha Khan. 

Farrukh—The Glorious, her name implied—pulled 
her gay embroidered blouse over her head and wrig¬ 
gled her arms into its long sleeves, gathered up her 
pink chuddur, the veil which enveloped her from head 
to toe in its graceful folds, and then respectfully sat back 
on her heels. 

“One thing more!” the old go-between shouted glee¬ 
fully. “Just one thing more! Mas’udeh Khanoum says 
her son must have an educated woman, one who can 
read and quote the poets. A man of his position must 
have a wife who will be a jewel and a light unto his 
name.” 

“Bring the book,” said Saltanet, and turned to her 
daughter. A swift look passed between them. “Bring 
the book,and read the part I like best.” 

Farrukh trembled slightly as she opened the volume. 
She turned her face to the page and began in a soft, 
musical voice: 

“When Rustem dreads Sohrab’s resistless power, 

Well may inferiors fly the trying hour! 

The dire suspicion now pervades us all, 

Thus, unavenged, shall beauteous Persia fall! 

Yet, generous still, avert the lasting shame, 

O, still preserve thy country 9 s glorious fame!" 

“Enough!” cried the go-between, satisfied of the girl’s 




The Go-Between Arranges a Marriage 


11 


ability. She herself could not tell A from B, but she 
recognized a passage from the Shah Nameh when she 
heard it, and for her that was enough. 

Farrukh waited expectantly. The mother held her 
breath, her fingers twitching nervously beneath the 
concealing folds of her chuddur . 

“Can you quote the poets?” 

That was easy. Farrukh had heard her brother recite 
much of the poetry he had learned at school. She began 
glibly quoting from Firdusi, the Poet of Paradise: 

“He who is blest with Heaven's grace 
Will never want a dwelling-place 
And he who bears the curse of fate 
Can never change his wretched state!' 

and from Sa’adi, the Nightingale of a Thousand Songs: 

“We give advice in its proper place, 

Spending a lifetime in the tas\. 

If it should not touch any one's ear of desire, 
The messenger told his tale; it is enough!' 

and Hafiz, the Sweet Singer of Shiraz: 

“If e'er for me thy love's sweet garden 
A fragrant breath exhale, 

My heart, expansive in its joy, 

Shall budlihe burst its veil." 

“ Mashallah! She is as learned as a mullah," the go- 



i8 


Jasmine 


between commented, profoundly impressed by this dis¬ 
play of learning. “I shall go to Mas’udeh Khanoum 
and tell her the little Farrukh is all that she could de¬ 
sire.” 

Saltanet relaxed in the warmth of a reassuring smile 
and proffered her guest the water pipe. Farrukh slipped 
unobtrusively from the room, her stocking feet making 
no sound on the thick handwoven carpet. She returned 
presently with a tray of sweets. A servant followed, bear¬ 
ing the steaming samovar, which he placed on the floor 
before his mistress. 

Saltanet filled the tiny glasses and set them in curi¬ 
ously carved metal holders. Farrukh then served the 
guest, holding the glass with both hands. She was a 
well-bred girl and knew that the go-between would re¬ 
port to Mas’udeh Khanoum any flaw in her manners. 

The old woman helped herself generously to the lump 
sugar. It would have been unaccustomed luxury for her 
to stir it with the tiny spoon of filigree silver. But she 
could not resist her much loved practice of sucking the 
tea through a lump of sugar held between her teeth. 

Now that her business was finished, she became more 
sociable. She spoke to Saltanet, Farrukh having retired 
to a remote corner near the door. 

“The father of Farrukh, he has been the landlord’s 
agent for many years, has he not?” 

“Ever since he was a young man,” Saltanet replied 
proudly, “and his father before him, they have always 



The Go-Between Arranges a Marriage 


11 


been the headman for the village of Tuhistan. Some¬ 
times the landlord lived here in Tuhistan; but when 
the old Khan died, his son Mustapha Khan left the vil¬ 
lage. He prefers to live in Hamadan. So my Abdullah 
has supervision of the village for him. It pleases us great¬ 
ly that he should desire our daughter as a bride.” 

Conversation continued, regarding life in Tuhistan 
and Hamadan. The go-between had been sent from 
Hamadan to interview the family and therefore knew 
very little about this village that was tucked away so 
high in the mountains. 

A loud knocking at the gate and the babble of ex¬ 
cited voices recalled the old woman with a start. 

“It must be Kazim, my son, with the donkey. The 
journey over the mountain is long and slow. We have 
to cross a rocky pass, you know, and he wants to get past 
it before darkness overtakes us. r .. Will you permit me 
to depart?” 

Saltanet urged the woman to remain longer, however, 
and then Farrukh served the farewell glass of tea. The 
go-between stealthily slipped a few sweets into her 
pocket to eat on the long journey, then Saltanet with 
polite reluctance finally yielded her consent for the de¬ 
parture. 

The old woman gathered the folds of her black street 
veil closely about her and carefully concealed her face. 

“God protect you,” she said, as she stood in the door¬ 
way. 





20 


Jasmine 


“Upon my eyes, your coming has brought happiness,” 
Saltanet responded, placing her fingers above her eye¬ 
brows. 

“God protect you,” Farrukh murmured, bowing re¬ 
spectfully. 

“Bismillahl In the name of God!” Kazim muttered, 
as he lifted the old woman onto the donkey. Then he 
prodded it with a stick and it dashed out the gateway, 
while the gatekeeper and his legion of ragged, bare¬ 
legged children shouted cordially, 

“God protect you! God go with you!” 

Mother and daughter drew a long breath. 





II 

JASMINE 

An air of contentment pervaded the garden. The 
brilliant Persian sunshine glinted through quivering pop¬ 
lar leaves and gently touched the nodding heads of rose, 
petunia, and marigold. Frolicking goldfish splashed in 
the pool, while honey bees hummed their madrigal in 
the trellis of jasmine. 

A fine handwoven rug was spread on the ground be¬ 
neath the almond tree and on it were set out a shining 


21 





22 


Jasmine 


brass samovar, the steaming teapot, and a tray of cu¬ 
cumbers. 

Mas’udeh Khanoum had laid aside her veil in the pri¬ 
vacy of the garden and appeared in the usual feminine 
costume—brightly embroidered loose blouse with close 
fitting neck and long sleeves; a very short, closely plaited 
ballet skirt; and long, black trousers. A fine, white lace 
veil held in her long braids of henna-tinted hair. Her 
hands were carefully groomed and the long oval nails 
stained with henna. A great blue turquoise gleamed in 
the wedding ring on her left hand. She was a lady. 

At the other end of the rug Mustapha Khan sat on 
his heels, peeling a cucumber. In appearance he resem¬ 
bled most of the young men of his acquaintance with 
his straight black hair, dark brown eyes, neatly clipped 
moustache, and well-made Western clothes. He was, 
very properly, wearing the Pahlevi hat, a straight-sided 
round hat with narrow military bill; for no orthodox 
Moslem would think of going about with his head un¬ 
covered, and since the accession of the new king, Reza 
Shah, no Persian except by special permit could wear 
the ancient turban or brimless felt cap of the former 
dynasty. 

Mas’udeh Khanoum poured her son another glass of 
tea and dropped a jasmine petal into its amber depths. 
For a moment the fragrant, fragile thing spun gently 
on the surface. Then it slowly sank to the bottom of the 
glass. 



Jasmine 


23 


“It will be like that,” she told the young man, as she 
pointed a slender finger. 

“Like the jasmine! She is beautiful and sweet. And 
you will live in a giddy dream for a time. But that will 
soon pass, she will become commonplace, and you will 
go about your affairs as before. We women are always 
relegated to the background. There is no happy com¬ 
panionship for us. A bride is in the sunshine for a few 
days, and then forever in the shadow. 

“And again it is said, ‘Woman is a calamity, but no 
house ought to be without this evil.’ But it shall not be 
so with me,” the young man protested vehemently. 
“When I had my schooling in jeranghistan, the foreign 
lands, I saw young women in the school who were 
charming and intelligent. Sometimes I was a guest in 
the professors’ homes and met their wives and daughters. 
Those women wore no veils, even in my presence. They 
laughed and talked with me, quoted from their illus¬ 
trious writers, and expressed their own ideas about af¬ 
fairs in their country. It was stimulating to be among 
such women. That is the reason I want a wife who can 
read fluently and quote the writings of our great poets, 
who can read and think and play and be a companion. 
I don’t want an old-fashioned, insipid creature.” 

“Mashallah! Then you will need a haremful. You 
will not find all those virtues in one woman.” 

“But the vakil told you our kadkjioda’s daughter in 
Tuhistan was just such a one. I am satisfied with the 



24 


Jasmine 


report. Let us proceed with the wedding as soon as a 
favorable date can be arranged.” 

“As you wish,” the mother replied indulgently. Mus- 
tapha was a good son, enterprising and upright, albeit 
a trifle spoiled by some of the impractical ideas he had 
absorbed from the foreign school in Hamadan and the 
law school in Paris. Other sons and daughters had mar¬ 
ried and moved to other villages which they had in¬ 
herited from the father’s estate. Only Mustapha re¬ 
mained at home, collecting rents and tariffs from his 
own village of Tuhistan and practising his profession of 
legal aide to the governor of the province. 

An hour later, at sunset, the eager bridegroom sum¬ 
moned a carriage and rode down to the bazaar to see his 
city agent. 

“Go to Agha Reza, who lives in my garden on the 
Street of The Mulberry Trees,” he said. “Tell him that 
I wish to occupy the place myself this autumn and that 
he must be ready to move in three months.” 

“Chash’m! By my eyes!” the agent replied. “But 
what of the contract? Agha Reza can demand the right 
to remain until New Year’s. His contract says as much.” 

“You speak truly,” Mustapha Khan conceded. He 
was a lawyer and knew the law, but he also knew human 
nature. He has the right, but he can be persuaded. 
Offer him a ‘present’—twenty or thirty tomans; or, 
better still, I will send him a rug. I prefer to keep his 
goodwill.” 



Jasmine 


11 


“It shall be done,” the agent assured him. “Besides, 
when all the workmen begin to come into the garden 
to repair the water-courses and the house, he will take 
his wife and daughters away in a hurry.” 

Mustapha Khan frowned. 

“It was the poet Sa’adi who said, ‘It is not every arm 
in which there is strength that can wrench the hand of 
a weak man. Bring not affliction upon the hearts of 
the feeble, lest thou may’st fall under the lash of the 
strong’,” he reminded his agent. 

They remained in conversation for a time, the young 
landlord giving instructions about repairs and altera¬ 
tions which he desired to have made in the garden. 

On the homeward way he heard a mullah in the 
minaret calling the Faithful to their prayers: 

“La Allah illal-liha Mohammed Rassoulallah.” 

“Allah is great; there is no God but Allah; Moham¬ 
med is His Prophet . 

“Come to prayer; come to prayer ” 

He cast an idle glance into the arched windows of 
the mosque, where the paper had peeled off the little 
wooden pane frames. A swinging lamp of pierced brass 
shed its dim light through the vast hall, bare save for 
the graceful columns that supported the arches, and the 
straw matting that covered the floor. On a shallow plat¬ 
form a few steps above his hearers, who squatted on the 
matting, stood the mullah . His white turban appeared 
stardingly distinct in the semi-twilight, while the long, 



26 


Jasmine 


loose folds of his brown camelhair robe were lost in the 
shadows. 

With the mullah, the true Believers were reciting the 
prayers of Mohammed, their voices blending in the 
sweet, rhythmic intonations. 

As Mustapha Khan listened, a feeling of peace came 
over him. He had an assured income, an enviable post 
with the governor, and now he was about to take a 
beautiful bride—one versed in all the great poets of 
Persia. No fly was in his ointment. 




Ill 

THE WEDDING 


It was midsummer. The village and mountainside lay 
parched and brown beneath a cloudless sky of deepest 
turquoise. The grapes were filling out and would be 
ready to harvest in another month. Men watched their 
vineyards with a jealous eye. 

The heavy iron knocker on the gate of Abdullah, the 
village headman, beat a continuous tattoo. Black veiled 
figures slipped into the garden and, recognizing each 


27 






28 


Jasmine 


other in some mysterious manner, chatted gaily as they 
walked up the gravel path to the house. 

“So you too are coming to Farrukh’s shirinee party!” 
The occasion was more to celebrate than to announce 
the engagement. 

“Yes, of course! And isn’t Farrukh a lucky girl to 
marry the Khan! ” 

“She is of common blood like the rest of us. I don’t 
see why Mustapha Khan chose her instead of one of us.” 

“They say it was because she could read so well and 
recite poetry.” 

“Farrukh read! That is news to me. But then per¬ 
haps she has been having lessons with a mirza ” 

The girls had reached the verandah. Deftly they re¬ 
moved their heelless slippers. 

“Salaam-n-aleikum. Peace be to you!” they greeted 
their hostess ceremoniously. 

“May you be blessed! ” 

“May you be the mother of a hundred sons!” 

Farrukh received these felicitations shyly and led the 
newcomers to a position in the room appropriate to 
their station in society. Here they sat down on the fine 
handwoven rugs and let their black silk veils slip to the 
floor. Then they leisurely looked about the room. 

Three walls were unbroken, except for a door and the 
usual taqchehs, or niches, slightly sunken into the thick 
wall to hold samovars, lamps, and velvet squares em¬ 
broidered with bright silk thread and seed pearls. The 



The Wedding 


29 


fourth wall faced the garden. All the windows had been 
swung open. Only the fanlight above each remained 
closed, and the faint light that filtered through the tiny 
panes of red and blue glass lent color to an already vivid 
scene. 

No men were present in this gathering, so maid and 
matron alike uncovered their faces and were glad of a 
chance to lay aside the long sombre street veils and dis¬ 
play their lovely party clothes. A Persian girl has so 
few occasions for wearing her prettiest garments that she 
must make the most of each opportunity. 

All the guests wore long black sateen trousers. Their 
high-necked, long-sleeved, loose blouses and short, full- 
plaited ballet skirts were of white cotton gaily embroid¬ 
ered and adorned with sequins, or fashioned of silks and 
satins and chiffon, of pink and blue and mauve and 
cerise. Dozens of delicate silver spangled bracelets jin¬ 
gled to the accompaniment of soft voices. Dark eyes 
rested with satisfaction or envy on turquoise rings. 
Glossy heads nodded, aware of the gleam of swaying ear¬ 
rings. Necklaces of imitation gold coin lent the final 
touch of festivity to the scene. 

On this important occasion the servants remained in 
the background and Farrukh herself served the guests. 
Her mother filled the tea glasses from the shining brass 
samovar and Farrukh carried them singly to her friends, 
ceremoniously holding the glass with both hands. Had 
she used but one hand, the guest would have been of- 



30 . 


Jasmine 


fended by her rudeness, for she would then have been 
giving but half her attention to the task. 

“May your hand never pain you!” they murmured 
sweetly, as she placed before them syrupy sherbat, hard 
little cakes, jellied candies, nuts and squash seeds, and 
fresh apricots. 

No one noticed—so interested was everyone in the 
bright costumes and sparkling chatter of wedding plans 
—that the sky had become overcast with the first clouds 
since April. Suddenly a spatter of raindrops startled 
everyone, and the servants stumbled over each other in 
their haste to bring the assembled shoes in from the 
verandah. 

“It is The Washing of The Grapes,” they exclaimed 
joyfully. The only rain of the long golden summer last¬ 
ed but a few minutes and served merely to wash the 
dust from the grapes in the vineyard, and perhaps lay 
the suffocating street dust momentarily. 

Farrukh’s mother now spoke. 

“It has been agreed that the marriage should take 
place during the first full moon after The Washing of 
the Grapes. So Farrukh will soon be gone from us.” 

Soon indeed! How fast those last days sped! And 
now the day of preparation had come. With a few close 
friends, Farrukh spent the last day in the public bath. 
Here she received the customary treatment by a trained 
attendant. In a dim steam room she was bathed—first 
with a soapy clay to remove the old, dead skin and with 



The Wedding 


ii 


a coarse stone to rub the callouses from her feet; and 
then with a fine lathery soap. Bucketfuls of hot water 
were thrown over her from time to time and finally a 
shower of cold. 

Farrukh emerged sputtering but glowing in every 
inch of her firm young flesh. Then she went to the next 
room to a long pool of warm water and submerged her¬ 
self three times, for spiritual as well as physical purifi¬ 
cation, according to the holy Koran. 

To receive the special bridal treatment she returned 
to her friends in the outer room. Here she reclined on 
a mat and was rubbed gently with ointment and musky 
perfumes. Her finger nails and toe nails were carefully 
stained with henna, and a heavy black eyebrow pencil 
used to trace a continuous line between the two natural 
eyebrows. Finally, the attendant skillfully brushed gilt 
paint over her hair and pronounced her the most beau¬ 
tiful bride she had ever seen. 

“Very beautiful! As lovely as a rose of Shiraz!” 
chimed in the friends, who had been sitting nearby on 
the floor, smoking the water pipe, drinking tea, and 
eating melon and squash seeds. 

The wedding day dawned warm and cloudless. The 
old Shaikh-ul-Islam, chief priest of ,the great Friday 
Mosque in Hamadan, arranged the folds of his best 
white turban with the greatest precision and strode forth 
to the home of Mustapha Khan. In his most impressive 



3£ 


Jasmine 


manner he charged the young man to enumerate truth¬ 
fully the presents he had given his bride. 

Mustapha Khan began: N 

“Three rugs from Kashan, one trunkful of fine Kash¬ 
mir shawls, four silk house chuddurs and two black 
street chuddurs, as well as the entire wedding costume, 
and—and a little white donkey.” 

“A little white donkey!” the mullah exclaimed, sur¬ 
prised out of his dignity by the mention of a thing so 
incongruous with these other costly and beautiful objects. 

“A little white donkey,” Mustapha Khan repeated 
almost apologetically, “so that Farrukh may ride to 
Tuhistan whenever she wishes.” 

This bare recital of gifts comprised the bridegroom’s 
part in the marriage ceremony. He gave the mullah a 
generous fee and remained at home to await the coming 
of his bride. 

The priest set out for Tuhistan. In the bride’s home 
the ceremony was completed. 

“Has anyone forced you into this marriage?” 

“No.” 

“Are you willing to marry this man?” 

“Yes.” 

“What gifts have you received from him?” 

“My wedding costume, four silk house chuddurs and 
two street chuddurs, a trunkful of Kashmir shawls, three 
Kashan rugs, and a donkey.” 

“What have you given him?” 



The Wedding 


33 


“His wedding suit, a rug which I myself wove, and a 
fine Ispahan water pipe.” 

The mullah, in his legal capacity, then turned to the 
father and wrote out in fine Arabic script the dowry 
agreement—the sum of money which Mustapha Khan 
was to receive from Abdullah and which he would for¬ 
feit if he divorced Farrukh. 

The act was finished. Farrukh and Mustapha Khan 
were man and wife, though neither had spoken a word 
to the other, nor seen the other’s face. 

Contrary to frequent practice, the wedding celebra¬ 
tion was held without delay. A hundred guests filled 
Abdullah’s garden, drank tea, and ate of the fluffy rice 
and stewed chicken. And in the midst of all, an orchestra 
filled the air with rhythmic excitement. Four drums 
and one long stringed tar made weird wedding music 
and a tenor from time to time sang humorous folk songs. 

After nightfall men and women gathered in separate 
apartments and continued their pleasure. A dancer from 
the tea house performed in the center of the room to the 
accompaniment of two small drums and a tambourine. 
Far into the night could be heard the rhythmic beating 
of the festal drums. 

Three days and nights the festivities lasted. Then 
the bride made ready for her departure. Immediately 
great crowds collected in the walled, crooked streets to 
watch the procession. Farrukh’s father and eldest 
brother held a small Koran between them and raised 



34 


Jasmine 


their arms high to form an arch for her to pass under 
as she; walked through the gateway. This act symbolized 
the giving of the paternal blessing. 

Before her walked an old family servant, facing back¬ 
ward so that the large oblong mirror which he carried 
would reflect light on the bride and make her way 
bright through life. Down the street they passed, the 
mirror-bearer, the bride, the guests, and then all the 
curious hangers-on who could wedge themselves within 
the confines of the high mud walls of the street. Last of 
all came a caravan of mules and donkeys with the bride’s 
possessions—small trunkfuls of clothing and shawls, 
rugs, pillows, fine new bedding, and a saddlebag contain¬ 
ing her beauty box and jewelry., 

Farrukh rode in a carriage as far as the first tea house 
outside the village. Then she climbed on her own little 
white donkey, while her maidservant mounted another, 
and the two women jogged along behind the string of 
mules which her father’s servant led over the mountain, 
across the dangerous ice fields, and down the slopes of 
the foothills into the city of Hamadan. 

One backward glance she cast toward the frowning 
bare mountain known as Yakji Chal, the Ice Wells, 
which separated her from the old home. One glance 
and then she saw a most inspiring sight. Close to the 
Yakji Chal another majestic peak rose against the tur¬ 
quoise sky. Along its top the rugged lines of rock 
streamed in mighty sculptural outline of a Moslem 



The Wedding 


35 


woman bowed in prayer, her black robe falling round 
her. 

“Always,” thought Farrukh, “I shall have that figure 
to look to, for strength and patience. Always I can see 
Elvend, the lovely mountain.” 

They had reached the city gate. The mule driver pro¬ 
duced the police jevaz, which permitted them to journey 
from one town to another, and presented it to the in¬ 
spector. They were allowed to continue into the city. 
Now and then the servant asked the way to The Street 
of The Mulberry Trees and soon they were winding 
their way through the narrow, crooked street. 

The little caravan stopped before an imposing gate. 
No need to strike the heavy iron knocker fashioned so 
cunningly like a human hand, for on the thick wall 
above stood the bridegroom. As the ponderous walnut 
doors swung open, Farrukh passed through the entrance 
to her new home, literally “beneath her husband’s feet,” 
as the little ceremony implied. 









IV 

A BRIDE AT HOME 


Farrukh and Mustapha Khan sat on the floor leisurely 
eating breakfast—“morning tea” they called it—for the 
meal consisted only of tea and a large round sheet of 
thin, crisp bread. 

“And what shall my little Yesmeh do today?” Mus¬ 
tapha playfully asked his bride. 

“Why do you call me Yesmeh when you know my 
name is Farrukh?” the girl asked in perplexity. 

Her husband laughed outright. 

36 




A Bride at Home 


37 


“Yesmeh, a Jasmine! My mother said you would be 
like the jasmine flower in my tea glass. For a while you 
would thrill my senses, and then I should become so 
accustomed to your presence that I would pay no more 
attention to you. 

“But it shall not be so, Little Jasmine! Every day you 
will charm me with your beauty and your sweet voice. 
Read to me now!” 

He laid before her a small volume, The Gulistan, its 
creamy pages covered with heavy, flowing Arabic script, 
with here and there a page delicately illuminated in red 
and gold and azure. 

Farrukh blanched. Would she so soon be found out 
and divorced for deception? Her eyes widened in fear. 

The man mistook her expression for timidity. 

“Come, Farrukh! The go-between told us you could 
read like a mullah. Do not be ashamed of your accom¬ 
plishment. It is not every woman who can read The 
Gulistan 

“The Shah Namehl” she gulped in terror. “The Shah 
Nameh I read for her; I cannot read The Gulistan!' 

Still uncomprehending, he laid the Shah Nameh in 
her hands. 

Farrukh began in a small voice: 

“When Rustem dreads Sohrab’s resistless power 
Well may inferiors . . 

“But you do not see those words!” Mustapha Khan 



38 


Jasmine 


cried in amazement, and the truth rushed upon him 
with a shock. 

“So you have lied to me! And I am now the laugh¬ 
ing stock of all Tuhistan! My face is black! Now must 
I eat shame, because a mere woman has made a fool of 
me! Why, I can divorce you for this! You with your 
pretty flower-face and a mind that contains nothing 
more than the tricks of deception! Bah! ” 

The outraged young husband strode from the room 
in a mighty anger, descended the steep stone stairs to 
the garden, and disappeared into the street without a 
glance toward the miserable girl who crouched trem¬ 
bling behind the samovar. 

Over the cobblestones he stumbled along. Beggars 
and unclean dogs and women passed unnoticed. A string 
of rug-laden camels would have knocked him down but 
for the frenzied warning of the driver. 

In his office he carried out his duties in a daze, not 
returning home for lunch or tea or even the evening 
meal, but satisfying his wants at a public tea house by 
the river. Until a late hour he sat in the tea garden 
smoking a water pipe, wrapped in bitter thought and ut¬ 
terly oblivious of brazen, black-veiled figures that cas¬ 
ually brushed against his arm. 

It was nearly midnight when he roused the gate¬ 
keeper, who came out like a ghost in his white sleeping 
garments to unbolt the gate. 

He went at once to his wife’s apartment. There he 



A Bride at Home 


39 


found her, crumpled in sleep against a large cushion on 
the floor. She had arrayed herself in all her wedding 
finery, in rich jewels and attar of roses, hoping to please 
her lord. Exhausted by the long hours of terror—he had 
not beaten her, so she knew her punishment would be 
even more severe—she had at last fallen asleep and did 
not know that even now he stood before her. So she 
could not see his mood soften almost imperceptibly to 
one of pity. 

“After all,” he confessed to himself, “she is only a 
child, only sixteen. It was for the security of her whole 
future that she gambled. My father would have turned 
her out, divorced her in a moment for such deception. 
That was the old-fashioned way. But I shall do differ¬ 
ently. For her sake it is perhaps fortunate that I hold 
to some of the foolish foreign notions which my mother 
ridicules. I shall solve my own problem the modern 
way.” 

Mustapha Khan unrolled the bundle of bedding 
which masked as a wall cushion by day, and stretched 
himself out for a few hours of fitful sleep, without dis¬ 
turbing his wife. 

Mor nin g light streamed cheerfully into the room and 
flashed back from the wedding mirror which hung on 
the wall. Mustapha Khan went up to the flat roof and 
joined his voice to the chorus that was singing the morn¬ 
ing call to prayer: 



40 


Jasmine 


“Allah is great; there is no God but Allah; 

Mohammed is His prophet. 

Come to prayer; come to prayer. 

Prayer is better than sleep. 

“Allah is great; there is no God but Allah; 

Mohammed is His prophet. 

Come to prayer; come to prayer.” 

When he came down, he found Farrukh sitting by 
the samovar, ready to serve his tea. She had smoothed 
out her wrinkled garments and smiled at him timidly. 

“Farrukh,” he said gently, and he prided himself on 
adopting this very Western attitude. 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Do not be afraid of me; I shall not divorce you. It 
is yourself you have wronged, not me. The poet says, 
‘To tell a falsehood is like the cut of a sabre; for, though 
the wound may heal, the scar of it will remain.’ But do 
not try to deceive me again; another time I may not be 
so lenient. 

“And now listen carefully to what I say. Undoubted¬ 
ly, you have a quick mind, else you could not have re¬ 
cited the poetry so easily. So, when I go through the 
bazaar today, I shall talk with Mirza Hassan and if 
possible arrange for him to give you reading lessons each 
day.” 



A Bride at Home 


4i 


“Oh, my lord! You are merciful to me, a miserable 
undeserving creature. But you shall see my gratitude. 
I will study until I know all the poets, until I can write 
a fair hand, and recite many proverbs.” 

Relief from the terror of divorce brought a glow to 
her face and a lilt to her voice. She was as one snatched 
back from death. The young husband left the garden a 
much happier man and Farrukh turned to her house¬ 
hold tasks with a light heart. 

First came Mahmud, the gatekeeper, who bought the 
food supplies in the city bazaar. As a bride, Farrukh 
had brought with her a supply of bread from the vil¬ 
lage. Anyone in Tuhistan would say that village bread 
was better than that which was to be had in the city. 
And when Farrukh’s supply from the village was gone, 
she would have her maidservant make it there at home 
—round, crisp sheets of whole wheat bread baked on hot 
stones in an underground oven. 

“Spinach and eggs and a cone of sugar,” Farrukh 
almost sang the list. “Be sure the spinach is young and 
tender. And, Mahmud, see if you can find some sweet 
Shiraz grapes.” 

“Yes, \hanoum, I am sure I can get Shiraz grapes. 
Yesterday I saw them in the bazaar, a penny for a hat¬ 
ful,” Mahmud informed her with alacrity. He would 
get a basketful and keep out some for his children at 
the gate. With quick steps he pattered down the path 
and out of the garden. 



42 


Jasmine 


The {ulfal or maidservant, she whom Farrukh had 
brought from the old home, came next, her faded blue 
calico robe gathered up to her waist and tied in a knot 
at the back. She was barefoot and wriggled her strong 
brown toes in the rich nap of the rug as she listened to 
her mistress. 

“When you have washed our breakfast dishes in the 
pool, polish the samovar well. Then sweep the rugs in 
all the rooms. When that is finished, carry the grinding 
stones outdoors and grind a supply of salt. Put it in the 
big blue Lalaine jar when it is ready.” 

“Yes, \hanoum” the \ulfat responded. “But it may 
take most of the day. These stones are not so good as 
those we had in Tuhistan.” 

Farrukh smiled kindly at her homesick maidservant 
and agreed with her. Then she turned to her own task 
of rolling the bedding into compact bundles, setting 
them against the wall for leaning cushions, and covering 
them with embroidered velvet squares. This small task 
concluded, she walked into the garden and wandered 
about aimlessly. 

Almond trees shaded the garden, while long straight 
rows of slender poplars marched along the margin of 
the water courses. All the common garden flowers clus¬ 
tered in profusion in formal beds, the center of the whole 
scheme being a shallow, stone-lined pool through which 
the water flowed unceasingly. Here the \ulfat washed 
the dishes, the clothes, and the vegetables, and fright- 



A Bride at Home 


43 


ened the placid goldfish who much preferred the silent 
reflection of the flowers to these frequent scenes of tur¬ 
moil. 

The house was built against the high mud wall which 
marked one end of the garden. A series of storerooms 
occupied the ground floor. The dwelling rooms were 
all above and were reached by prodigiously steep stone 
stairs. At one side of the stairway on the ground floor 
was a spacious room not enclosed like the adjacent store¬ 
rooms. Its walls were finished with light blue plaster 
and its floor laid with slabs of stone. In the center of 
the room a splashing cascade of water descended over 
rough-hewn blocks of stone, lingered in a tiny stone- 
lined declivity, and then flowed into the brimming pool 
which lay in the garden sunlight. 

On either side of the cascade were crude wooden 
benches covered with small rugs. Here anyone might 
come with his tea glass, a cucumber, or water pipe, and 
recline on the wooden couch to seek relief in this dim 
spot from the glittering sunshine and to be refreshed 
by the water-cooled air and suggestive splashing on the 
rocks. 

Each afternoon Farrukh dressed herself with particu¬ 
lar care, arranged her silken house chuddur gracefully, 
and bade the maidservant prepare plenty of tea and 
cakes and melon seeds. Mustapha’s mother had made 
an early call on her son’s wife and, pleased with the 
girl’s quiet charm and correct manners, had brought her 



44 


Jasmine 


friends to call. These in turn had brought other friends, 
so that in a very short time Farrukh found herself in the 
midst of a wide circle of acquaintances. They came to 
her home and drank tea, smoked the water pipe, and 
gossiped; she returned the calls, drank their tea, and 
contributed her bits of household gossip. 

Her mornings were spent with the mirza, two hours 
of laborious puzzling over the crooked Arabic figures, 
repeating poetic epigrams, and making smudgy efforts 
to write the alphabet with a split-reed pen. Then came 
the reward at noon, when Mustapha came home for 
lunch and praised her for her aptitude. 

“Remember!” he would warn her in jest. “If you do 
not learn to read, you will be Jasmine and not Farrukh 
to me.” 

But Farrukh took his words seriously and in a short 
time was able to read the simple phrases in her primer. 
When she had mastered several stories in The Gulistan, 
she opened the book and read to him triumphandy. 

“ ‘Patience accomplishes its object,’ ” she read, “ ‘while 
hurry speeds to its ruin. With my own eyes I saw in 
the desert that the deliberate man outstripped him that 
had hurried on. The wing-footed steed is broken down 
in his speed, whilst the camel-driver jogs on with his 
beast to the end of his journey.’ ” 

“ Mashallah! That is indeed fine,” he exclaimed in 
genuine enthusiasm. 

Farrukh took instant advantage of his mood. 



A Bride at Home 


45 


“I have a petition to make,” she announced. 

“Go ahead; say it,” he invited her genially. 

“It is this,” the young wife explained. “I should like 
to set up a loom and supervise some weavers in the mak¬ 
ing of rugs. Other women have their weaving rooms 
and I too should like to try it. My mother instructed 
me in weaving—you remember the rug I wove and gave 
to you as a wedding present—so I think I could super¬ 
vise the work satisfactorily. It would be another interest 
to fill my days.” 

“And where would you have this rug factory?” 

“There is an empty room across the path from the 
gatehouse. I have measured it. We can set up two looms 
for the dozari, the two meter size, and still have a little 
space left.” 

“Yes, I think it can be arranged,” Mustapha agreed, 
and with youthful enterprise immediately set about se¬ 
curing a man to build the looms. In spite of his en¬ 
thusiasm for the modern mode, he failed to realize that 
in this undertaking he was encouraging his wife in one 
of the oldest occupations for Persian women. 

Farrukh conferred with her husband’s mother, who 
at first was skeptical of the ability of the young girl. 
However, she gave her advice about buying wool and 
having it carded and dyed, told her where she could 
hire a draftsman to copy patterns, and assured her that 
weavers by the score would flock to her gate when they 
learned that work was to be had. 



46 


Jasmine 


At length Farrukh found a skillful woman who would 
set up the warp threads whenever she was needed, two 
master weavers, and four little girls who had just learned 
the knack of tying knots and would be willing to work 
from sunrise to sunset for only a few cents. 

“What is your name?” she asked one of the children, 
as she visited the looms one day. 

“I am Osra,” the child replied. “My father is Abbas.” 

“And what does he do? Does he work in the bazaar?” 

“I don’t know what he does,” the child answered. 
“Sometimes he just sits in the tea house and talks with 
a man from the South, and sometimes he goes on long 
journeys.” 

Farrukh had smelled the sweetish odor of opium on 
the child’s father when he brought her to the garden 
the first day. 

“He is probably an opium smoker,” she told herself, 
“but I hope the child doesn’t use it, too.” 

She spoke to her husband about the matter. 

“Everything that is round is not a walnut,” he re¬ 
minded her. “And everyone who smells of opium may 
not be a smoker. So do not eat trouble that is not set 
before you. 

“But come! Fetch my water pipe and I will tell you 
of the tax collector’s visit today. I believe he has his eye 
on me, and it isn’t the Evil Eye!” 



V 

THE END OF THE WORLD AND AFTERWARD 
The end of the world was at hand. So said the simple 
folk who had heard someone announce in the mosque 
that there would be an eclipse of the moon that night. 
They had gone to their homes with the idea that a 
dragon was to devour the moon and that it would bring 
the end of the world unless it could be driven off before 
it accomplished its destruction. 

Farrukh, too, shared this superstition and all Mus- 










48 


Jasmine 


tapha Khan’s attempts to explain the cause of the eclipse 
failed to shake her belief in the dragon. For had she 
not gone out year after year with her family to join the 
other villagers on the common and help make a great 
noise which would frighten the dragon away from the 
moon? And had they not always been successful? 

In the face of her husband’s ridicule, she dared not 
join the community effort to drive off the dragon that 
night, but she urged the maidservant to attend and to 
exert herself doubly in the common cause. 

Three hours past sunset little groups began to gather 
in the maidons where several crooked streets met, there 
to wait for the dragon. Fearfully they stepped over 
broken gravestones that cluttered the common. Here 
and there a brave soul ventured a half-hearted jest that 
drew forth only forced laughs. Brass trays and copper 
basins held tight against black figures reflected the eerie 
white moonshine. Little boys boastfully measured the 
length of their stout sticks. 

Then the dragon was upon them. With slow, sinister 
progress, it spread its shadow across the lambent moon. 
At first it took only a chip from the rim of the bright 
saucer; then, a great greedy bite. 

Frightened by the progress of destruction, the towns¬ 
people attacked their pots and pans with frenzied energy. 
The resultant clangor and confusion could be heard far 
up the sides of the old Musallah hill and across the 
sleeping plain. Indeed, it could be heard to the very 



r/te End of the World and Afterward 


49 


moon itself. For the dragon, terrified by this violent 
demonstration on the planet Earth, retreated disgrace¬ 
fully from the field and disappeared somewhere in the 
sable, starless Beyond, while the effulgent moon smiled 
down in gratitude upon her deliverers. 

Disaster was averted; the Judgment Day was not yet. 
Joyous in their continued victory in these periodic or¬ 
deals, the relieved townspeople jostled their way home¬ 
ward through the narrow walled streets. Mischievous 
little boys struck strange gates with their sticks and then 
darted behind the black robes of mother or sister. Tired 
women complained of the heavy trays and basins which 
so lately had saved their lives. 

“Mashallah!” they said to one another. “This strug¬ 
gle is never finished. Almost every year we must 
frighten the dragon away, and still it comes back again!” 

They were in the Street of The Mulberry Trees, and 
the maidservant Shokat, stopping at her own great gate, 
offered advice as she waited for the gatekeeper to unbolt 
the door. 

“You should get stout sticks such as we have in Tuhis- 
tan,” she said. “Our people can make more noise than 
you Hamadanis; we frighten away the dragon in one 
minute! In one minute! ” 

The gate banged shut. The \ulfat was already hasten¬ 
ing to the harem to tell her mistress of the evening’s 
victory. But Farrukh was just then unrolling the wall 
cushions and spreading them into pallets on the floor. 



Jasmine 


sq. 

“Tomorrow v you shall tell me—tomorrow,” she spoke 
impatiently, having watched the victory in the sky from 
her own window, and shooed the woman away. Poor 
\ulfat! She was so homesick for Tuhistan that she must 
make Farrukh take the place of family and friends, and 
she sometimes forgot herself so far as to treat Farrukh 
as a sister and not as a superior \hanoum, the wife of an 
aristocrat. 

Tomorrow and many morrows sped the sun in its 
southward course, and now the Persian housewives 
busied themselves in preparation for the rigors of a long 
winter. 

“Buy melons,” Farrukh would tell the servant 
Mahmud, “plenty of melons, large sweet kjiarbusehs, 
and bed them in straw in the storeroom. 

“And you,” she would then say, turning to the \ulfat, 
“you twine the grape clusters into long braids. Mah¬ 
mud’s woman can help you suspend them from a beam 
in the storeroom. Yes, yes! You may have some purple 
grapes of Tuhistan. But hang up plenty of the little 
kjshmish. We must have plenty of raisins for the rice. 
And—if it is not too much trouble—do try to preserve 
a few clusters’ of as\ari grapes. If you are careful, they 
will keep until New Year’s. They would make a fine 
present for Mas’udeh Khanoum.” 

Grapes and melons and squash in the storeroom, fes¬ 
toons of little red peppers in the doorway, shallow bas¬ 
kets of dried apricots and tart prunes in the corner, and 



The End of the World and Afterward _ 51 

a row of blue jars so tall and broad that they might have 
harbored Ali Baba and The Forty Thieves had they not 
already been filled with charcoal, rice, wheat, barley, 
salt ground fine, squash seeds, and shiny black melon 
seeds. Here then the \uljat had visible proof of her 
many long hours spent with the grinding stones and 
the mortar and pestle. Several smaller jars of the same 
bright Persian blue held carefully ground spices, whole 
anise seeds, and cardamom. 

Farrukh viewed the stores with pride. The snow had 
not yet come to Hamadan, though it had whitened the 
Praying Woman of El vend and was already creeping 
down the slopes. But when it did descend upon the 
city, even an unexpected blizzard that blocked the walled 
streets and shut all men into their snowbound gardens 
could not discommode Farrukh. She and her house¬ 
hold could stand a siege for several days against the 
Snow King. 

“But it is not yet winter,” she told herself cheerfully. 
“Come, Mahmud! Call a droshky and take me to the 
bazaar. Be sure to bring a basket. I shall purchase many 
things.” 

Mahmud hurried out of the garden and returned 
presently riding on the high seat with the carriage driver. 
Farrukh drew her black silk street veil closely about her 
—one of her wedding presents from Mustapha Khan— 
and climbed into the gaudily upholstered seat. The big 
black hood of the carriage discreetly shielded her from 



51 


Jasmine 


the curious gaze of passersby. At the same time, it pre¬ 
vented her seeing many of the shivering filthy beggars 
who plied their trade in every strategic corner of the 
crooked streets. 

The cobblestones were exceedingly rough and caused 
her many a breath-taking jolt. It was with a definite 
sense of relief that she finally got out and paid off the 
driver, when the street had become too narrow to permit 
further passage of the carriage. 

Now they entered the covered bazaar. Tiny open 
shops lined each side of the alley made dim by its roof 
of arched masonry. The country bride always gazed in 
open-mouthed amazement at the interminable line of 
shops. There had been nothing like it in Tuhistan; 
two or three cloth shops, a cobbler, the vegetable man, 
the charcoal seller, the harness maker, and one whose 
cubbyhole held gleaming copper scale-pans and baskets 
of raisins and nuts. 

But in this enchanting bazaar were dozens of cloth 
shops where eager merchants called out: 

“What do you wish, lady? I have it.” 

Or again: 

“Come on, lady! Just step into my shop. Sit here on 
the rug while I show you what has just come from the 
Great Caravanserai—beautiful block prints from Ispa¬ 
han, exquisite silks from France.” 

Farrukh was entranced. She paused. A beggar clawed 



The End of the World and Afterward 


53 


her robe—a ragged, deformed, and vermin-infested 
creature. 

“Oh, \hanouml” it shrilled. “One penny, just one 
penny, give me.” 

Farrukh mechanically thrust a coin toward the un¬ 
human form. Giving alms stored up credit for one in 
heaven. 

Instantly three new voices took up the theme. Mah¬ 
mud pushed close to his mistress. 

“Quick!” he said. “Follow me at once down this 
turning, or you will have an army of them at your heels.” 

She shook off the loathsome hands and scuttled 
around the corner. Another turn, and another, and they 
were safe again—for the moment, at least. A devious 
course at length brought them to the Cobblers’ Lane. 
Here in the dim light Farrukh paused to watch an old 
man diligently sewing a shoe. He sat back on his heels 
and beckoned to the prospective customer. 

“What do you wish, lady? I have it.” 

“A pair of white heelless slippers with crochet top,” 
Farrukh explained. 

“Yes, yes! I have them,” he cried, waving a needle 
and thread in the air as he pointed to a neatly arranged 
stack of shoes. 

“Hossein! Fetch a pair of givehs for the lady,” he 
addressed an alert youngster who was obviously his 
apprentice. “Small size, of course! Don’t you see that 
she is a lady?” 






M. 


Jasmine 


Hossein brought forth the slippers. Farrukh sat down 
on the floor and tried them. 

“How much?” she inquired. 

The cobbler considered—silk veil, small feet, a servant 
in attendance. 

“Six \rans” he announced, a sum of sixty cents. 

“Two only,” Farrukh replied firmly. 

“But, lady! The excellent material, the skillful stitch¬ 
ing! I cannot sell for less than five.” 

“Five \rans! No, they are not worth even three 
fy-ans” 

“But they have no flaw. See! I make you a present 
of them at four \rans” 

“It would indeed be a present to you if I gave three 
gratis ten chahis” 

“Very well, lady! Let it be three \rans ten.” 

Farrukh counted out the silver coins. 

“Three \rans ten,” she remarked, as the coins fell 
into the cobbler’s leathery grasp. 

“My apprentice, lady! He wishes a present. He 
assisted in the sale,” the cobbler pointed to little Hos¬ 
sein, who already was smiling hopefully. 

Farrukh grudgingly produced a chahi, a coin of about 
a half-cent value. 

“I am very grateful,” the cobbler mumbled. 

“May Allah be kind to you!” the apprentice blessed 
her in gratitude. 

Mahmud put the shoes in his basket and waited re- 




The cobbler considered—silk veil , small feet , a servant 
in attendance 






The End o[ tjie World and Afterward 


55 


spectfully. Farrukh leisurely examined the stock of the 
next cobbler’s shop. Here was a man making mullah- 
slippers. Already he had many pairs stacked against 
the wall—bright red and yellow and green. Of course, 
it was the priests of the mosque who usually wore these 
gay slippers that curled up to a vertical point at the tip 
and were entirely open along the sides and back, only a 
narrow sole supporting the heel. But other purchasers, 
too, found them attractive and often carried home a pair 
to wear around the garden. 

Farrukh felt at once that she must have the bright red 
pair that the cobbler was even then finishing. Such a 
vivid red—just the color of pomegranates—and the tip 
curled back like the crest of a wave! She must have 
them! 

The cobbler looked up. 

“The \hanoum likes my shoes?” 

“Perhaps. How much are they?” 

“The price is almost nothing—ten krans only.” 

“It is too much,” Farrukh replied and turned away. 

“Then how much?” parried the cobbler. 

“Four \rans,” Mahmud prompted his mistress. 

Farrukh finally bought the shoes for six, gave them 
to Mahmud, and retraced her steps through the tortuous 
lanes of commerce. Only once did she linger, before 
the variety shop, where ribbons and buttons and fans, 
shoestrings and gaudy combs and cheap jewelry dangled 
from convenient nails in the ceiling and presented them- 



56 


Jasmine 


selves within easy reach of the proprietor, who sat on 
the floor in the midst of his merchandise. 

The covered bazaar had grown dim and Farrukh 
realized that she had dallied too long. In the open street 
once more, she discovered it was past sunset and here 
and there shopkeepers were already closing the wooden 
shutters to lock their shops for the night. 

A vegetable pushcart rattled past, a tiny castor oil 
lamp burning feebly among the beets and spinach. 

“Have patience! ” Mahmud called to the pusher. 

The man stopped. 

“Fresh vegetables—beets, spinach, onions, and 
squash,” he announced hopefully. “My lamp is lit; I 
am selling for half price.” 

A transaction involving five onions and three cents 
was concluded with very little haggling. The man 
wanted to sell out and get home before his cart should 
run over a jinn in the dark and that fearsome spirit 
follow him to the end of his days. 

Then Farrukh beheld the orange peddler. On his 
head he balanced a broad, willow basket piled high with 
golden fruit. 

“Portugal! Portugal! Very sweet!” his strong tenor 
voice made a song of the fruitful theme. Early Persians 
believed that their first sweet oranges—in distinction to 
the bitter ungrafted oranges—had been brought up the 
Persian Gulf by Portuguese traders. 

The necessary coins were counted out, and the oranges 




The End of the World and Afterward 


57 


joined the company of onions and slippers in the basket. 
Mahmud hailed a passing droshty, which jolted them 
rapidly toward the Street of The Mulberry Trees. 

It was while Farrukh was gazing upward toward Mt. 
Elvend, whose snowy peak melted into the pearly sky, 
that they had the small accident which was later to as¬ 
sume such significance. Another carriage attempted to 
pass theirs in the narrow street and locked wheels. 

Instantly both drivers began to curse. 

“Son of a burnt father! ” roared the one. “Would you 
kill me and my horses, and my honorable passengers?” 

“May you be stung by a scorpion, but it is your fault!” 
the other bellowed, and waited for him to climb down 
and undo the damage. 

In the end, it was Mahmud who broke the deadlock. 
The drivers would have stayed all night to argue the 
merits, or demerits, of the case rather than admit any 
responsibility for the deed. 

When the woman of Mahmud opened the gate, 
Mahmud observed that the weavers had already gone 
home. 

“Khanoum ” he said in sudden remembrance, “do 
you know who the passengers were in that other 
drosh\y? I saw them when I climbed down to loose the 
wheels. The father of Osra, your weaver, and—” 

As he whispered the name, Farrukh started in amaze¬ 
ment. It was that of a government official of consider¬ 
able rank, a man highly important, as Farrukh already 



Jasmine 


i§. 

knew, in her husband’s world. He was referred to sim¬ 
ply as the Colonel. But what could the Colonel have 
in common with a ne’er-do-well like Abbas, the little 
weaving girl’s father? 

“Truly?” asked Farrukh in amazement. “But surely 
you did not see right. A great man like that would have 
no business with Osra’s father.” 

“They were drawn back into the shadows, but I am 
certain,” Mahmud protested. “When I served my army 
term, I saw him often. I would know him anywhere. 
And the old man, he comes to the gate often to get 
Osra’s wages from the master weaver. I know him, too.” 

It was in Farrukh’s mind to mention this incident to 
her husband. But she was still a good deal in awe of 
Mustapha Khan, and besides, she could not feel quite 
sure how he might take a confidence of this kind. More 
than once he had reproved her for what he called lis¬ 
tening to servants’ gossip, when she had reported some 
little thing that had come to her ears through Mahmud 
or the \ulfat. He felt that it was below her dignity to 
listen to household talk. 

Perhaps this new incident too would only call down 
a gentle rebuke for mixing in affairs with which she had 
no concern. So she decided to say nothing about it, 
though she pondered the matter in her own mind. But 
later on, when Mahmud’s words came back to her with 
startling significance, she was to regret her prudence. 

The beginning of Chihel-i-Bezurgh, or Big Forty, the 



The End of the World and Afterward 


59 


first forty days of winter, required the immediate in¬ 
stallation of the \urseh —the little wooden frame that 
set over a pan of hot charcoals, and an enormous cotton 
quilt to hold in the heat. Day after day Farrukh sat 
with her legs thrust under the warm frame, the quilt 
pulled up close around her waist. A thick woolen jacket 
protected her shoulders, for the room itself remained 
cold except for the one warm spot under the quilt. 

At mealtime the bread and cheese, the rice, and the 
stew were set on top of the kurseh . With cozy toes and 
shivering shoulders, Farrukh and Mustapha ate their 
food and engaged in lazy conversation. 

“In the office of the law,” the young legal aide in¬ 
formed his wife, “we are very foreign. We have aban¬ 
doned the \urseh and have a little iron stove instead. 
We feed it sticks of wood and it warms the whole room.” 

“And does it warm the garden too?” Farrukh won¬ 
dered. 

“Oh, no, simple child! We must close the doors and 
windows when we make a fire. Otherwise, it eats too 
much fuel. That reminds me of a matter that occurred 
this morning. 

“I was busy preparing a report on the trial of two 
merchants who had been caught buying foreign drafts 
above the legal rate. In fact, only the National Bank 
has government permission to deal in foreign exchange. 

“While I was writing, I realized that one of those 
merchants was even then talking excitedly to the judge. 



6o 


Jasmine 


The servant had left the inner door ajar when he car¬ 
ried in some tea shortly before. So I heard every word. 

“ ‘You will forget the episode then,’ the merchant was 
saying, ‘the episode, and even my name if ... if I can 
procure for you so many tomans by sunset?’ ” 

“Bah! bah!” Mustapha chuckled as he recalled the 
man’s great agitation. “Every man’s teeth are blunted 
by acids excepting the judge’s, and they require sweets. 
Well, the merchant left us then and came back in three 
hours. But he had only half the price. He thought he 
could haggle with Justice! The judge drew himself up 
grandly as he spoke to the culprit. 

“ ‘Place not thy kettle on my grate,’ he said, ‘for its 
fire is cooled.’ 

“So the old fellow had to pay a fat fine after all, and 
I received a fair share of it for my work on the case. 
Well, that was one fire that cooled rapidly, and it was 
neither foreign stove nor \urseh” 



VI 

RAMAZON 


Ramazon, the Month of Fasting, was at hand. Some¬ 
where in the distance of the Persian dusk a cannon 
boomed, echoed and re-echoed against the mountains 
that encircled the Hamadan plain, and then was silent. 
The moment had come when the sun was fully set. 

From the great gate of Farrukh Khanoum’s garden 
several women and little girls came into the street, their 

61 

































62 


Jasmine 


long black chuddurs held close to keep passersby from 
seeing their faces. They were the weavers who worked 
in Farrukh’s weaving room by the gatehouse. 

Osra, the youngest weaver, was faint with hunger. 
She had eaten nothing since sunrise, and the day’s work 
had been long and hard. Now she hastened to a small, 
open shop where a big, black cauldron stood at the edge 
of the street. From within the folds of her robe she 
drew out a bright blue bowl. 

“A penny’s worth of angoush-pech” she said, point¬ 
ing to the thick, sticky confection in the cauldron and 
drawing the veil more closely about her face. 

As she hurried homeward, she saw other people car¬ 
rying their bowls of liquid candy for the evening meal. 
How delicious it looked! Hunger pangs assailed her 
and she twisted her finger in the bowl and lifted it drip¬ 
ping to her mouth. This, the first food she had had 
since sunrise, was so sweet, so tantalizing, that she thrust 
in her finger and scooped up a second mouthful. An¬ 
goush-pech is well named; it means, literally, “Twist 
your finger,” and is a dish prepared only during the 
month of Ramazon. 

The high mud wall on each side of the street was 
broken at intervals by wooden gates or doors securely 
barred on the inside. At one particularly small gate, 
Osra stopped and rapped sharply with the iron knocker. 

“Who is it?” promptly called a voice behind the wall. 

“It is Osra. Open!” the girl replied and waited until 



Ramazon 


63 


the squeaky wooden bolt had been pushed back and the 
gate opened. 

“Why, Jamshid! How did you happen to be at the 
gate when I knocked?” Osra asked her little brother 
kindly. “I am glad I didn’t have to wait long, for I am 
very cold.” 

“I had just come in,” Jamshid explained. Then, 
catching sight of her blue bowl, he cried out, “Oh! I 
got some, too! I won a penny from Vakil playing 
knuckle-bones. So I bought a bowl of angoush-pech. 
This is the first of Ramazon, you know, and it has been 
a whole year since we had any.” 

Osra and Jamshid sat down on the floor, thrust their 
legs under the \urseh and pulled the quilt up to their 
chins. How warm it was under the \ursehl And how 
cold outside! 

The mother, also sitting under the quilt, asked her 
children for the news of the street and factory. Osra, 
who had been tying knots of yarn in the solid-color 
background of a beautiful rug for several months, now 
had good news. 

“Tomorrow I am to begin outlining flowers instead 
of doing backgrounds,” she announced happily. “My 
mistress, the lady Farrukh, comes in to the weaving 
room infrequently to supervise our work. Today she ex¬ 
amined my work very closely. She stood beside me 
for a long time and watched me tie knots. Then she 



64 


Jasmine 


questioned the master weaver and told me that I might 
begin the outline work tomorrow. 

“Of course I shall use just black wool now instead of 
the lovely rose and blue and cream. But it means a 
promotion, and perhaps some day I shall be a master 
weaver. Then I’ll get ten cents a day and be rich.” 

The mother smiled and praised her clever little daugh¬ 
ter. Then she turned to Jamshid. 

“And you? What have you been doing today? I 
wish we had enough money to send you to school. It 
is not good for you to be idle all the time.” 

“I played knuckle-bones with Vakil next door and 
won. So I bought a bowl of angoush-pech to break the 
fast. Osra bought fsome, too, so we shall'have plenty.” 

Now the father and older sons came home and the 
whole family was soon seated under the \urseh —father, 
mother, two older sons, and the little Jamshid and Osra. 
On top of the \urseh the mother spread a large sheet of 
thin, brown bread which big Karim had carried home 
in a roll on his head. A bowl of stewed meat and vege¬ 
tables, a pile of white cheese, and the two bowls of 
angoush-pech were placed on the sheet of bread, which 
served as both food and tablecloth. Having worked all 
day without food, everyone was ravenous and spoke 
scarcely a word as he tore off bits of bread to scoop up 
the hot stew, or munched the rubbery cheese. 

Finally the father broke the silence. 

“How is it that there are two bowls of angoush-pech? 



Ramaz on 


65 


Is that the way you foolishly spend the money I earn? 
The great risks that I take, the dangers I..He caught 
himself sharply. Even his own family was unaware of 
the exact nature of his occupation. 

His wife attempted to quiet his anger. “But, Abbas, 
Jamshid bought one bowlful with a penny he won at 
knuckle-bones. That is different, is it not?” 

“Gambling money or my wages, it is all the same,” 
he bellowed. “He knows not the value of money, and 
never will unless he toils for it. And as for Osra, she 
is worse. Like water, her wages slip through her fingers. 
Angoush-pech! Did I give you permission to buy it?” 

In terror, Osra fingered the large sheet of bread. 
“N-no, Father,” she said. 

“See that you remember well, then,” Abbas growled. 
“And to impress it clearly on your mind, you and I will 
have a talk by ourselves later.” 

Osra’s mother was deeply distressed. “Osra is such a 
good girl,” she lamented to herself. “And she has so 
few pleasures. Always the weaving. And now, the 
harsh words from her father.” 

But Abbas was speaking again. “My brother, Hos- 
sein, has asked us to come to his garden tomorrow,” he 
was saying, “and break the fast with his family at mid¬ 
night.” 

His wife seized upon his words eagerly. “How fine!” 
she cried. “And Osra—you may wear your pink blouse 
and cerise jacket under your chuddur! And we shall all 



66 


Jasmine 


sit up late and drink much tea. Oh, assuredly, I, too, 
must wear my prettiest clothes.” 

The thought of a special celebration to end the fast¬ 
ing greatly pleased the rest of the family. And as the 
bowls of angoush-pech were passed and each in turn 
dipped his finger into the soft candy, and the father and 
older sons smoked the water pipe and gossiped, Osra 
forgot her unfortunate purchase and her father’s harsh¬ 
ness, thinking, instead, of the pink blouse and the cerise 
jacket and the good time they would all have at Uncle 
Hossein’s. 

At bedtime the huge wall cushions were opened and 
the mattresses spread on the floor. These were arranged 
so that each person should lie as far as possible under 
the warm \urseh, with his head and shoulders protrud¬ 
ing into the cold outside air. Osra and the smaller 
children went to sleep first of all, and although Abbas 
looked sharply at the girl from over the water pipe, he 
said nothing. 

At midnight, however, when the family were awak¬ 
ened by their mother for the second meal which would 
prepare them for their fasting, Abbas made his way to 
the side of his daughter. The others were eating in 
drowsy silence, half asleep. But Abbas’ eyes were sharp. 

“Bestir your mind, Osra,” he whispered fiercely. “For¬ 
get not a word of what I shall say. Each day in the 
weaving room, you are to listen. Do you hear me? 
You are to listen and you are to watch. And you are to 




“You will watch and you will tell?” 






Ramazon 


69 


learn when the master goes away, and where he goes. 
And if your mistress goes with him, you are to know 
that, too. And you are to tell me.” 

Osra’s dark eyes were wide with fright and bewilder¬ 
ment. Why should her father wish to know of the 
master’s coming and going? What did the mistress’ 
journeyings have to do with him? 

Abbas took fast hold of her arm and shook her. “An¬ 
swer me! You will watch and you will tell?” 

“Yes, Father,” said Osra. 

It was strange, so very strange, this that her father 
had asked of her. And the ominous note in his voice 
haunted her dreams, causing her to toss and twist under 
the \urseh. Even her excitement next day of beginning 
to outline the flowers on her rug was shadowed by 
memory of the fierceness of his eyes and the pinching 
of his fingers on her arm. When Farrukh came into the 
weaving room to examine her work and that of the 
other weavers, Osra’s hands felt cold and clammy and 
she could not look up in answer to her mistress’ en¬ 
couragement. 

“She is afraid she will not accomplish the outlining 
satisfactorily,” thought Farrukh, noting the child’s agi¬ 
tation and patting Osra’s head encouragingly. 

“Have no fear, little one,” she said. “You have begun 
well. And if you could but have your glass of tea, you 
yourself would see that the flowers are growing prettily 
under your hands.” 



70 


Jasmine 


This was her opportunity, Osra knew, to ask her 
mistress about her plans and those of Mustapha Khan. 
But the words would not come. Nor did Farrukh again 
enter the weaving room before the sunset cannon 
boomed and the weavers left their looms and hurried 
home to break the fast. 

“Now for the pretty clothes! ” cried her mother when 
Osra came in. 

But no answering smile brightened the child’s face. 
“Where is Father?” she asked dully. 

“Look for yourself,” answered her mother. 

Standing outside the door, despite her mother’s urgent 
admonitions for haste, Osra watched for Abbas’ return. 
And when at length she spied him, she went out slowly 
to meet him. 

“Father,” she said. “I could not ask. She was so 
kind. What business is it of mine and yours that I 
should know when they depart, when return?” 

Abbas’ cheeks flushed in sudden anger. “Ask! I did 
not tell you to ask! Had you asked, stupid, you would 
not again go to your weaving room. Watch, I said. 
And listen. And watch you will, and listen you will. 
But let not one word escape you, even to your mother.” 

As her fingers fumbled with the fastenings, Osra felt 
the pink blouse and the cerise jacket to be neither bright 
nor gay. Nor could she join in the laughter and the fun 
at Uncle Hossein’s. Something was very wrong, and 
that her father meant no good to her beloved mistress, 



Ramazon 


7i 


of this Osra was very sure. In the midst of the family’s 
gaiety, as her thoughts returned to the happy hours in 
the weaving room, there grew in the child’s mind first 
a fear, then a determination. Fear, lest by her spying she 
should be banished forever from the weaving room and 
her loom. 

Then—“He said I must not ask; neither shall I,” she 
said to herself. “And if I listen but do not hear; if I 
look yet see nothing but the flowers in my rug—am I to 
blame for that?” 

It was the response of a wistful child to kindness. 
But Farrukh never knew. 








VII 

NO RUZ 

A steady stream of visitors had been entering the 
governor’s garden all day—military men, officials of 
the province, and well-to-do merchants of the city. 
Ushered into the upper room by a uniformed man¬ 
servant, they presented themselves to the governor. 

May you be blessed in the New Year!” was their 
customary salutation. “May you be blessed in the fes¬ 
tival of the New Year! Aid-i No Ruz mobara\ bashad!” 

It was the first day of spring, Persian No Ruz, and a 


72 















No Ruz 


73 


season of national festivity. Throughout the city, every 
little shop was hung with gorgeous handwoven rugs in 
vivid hues of rose or ruby red, blue, green, orange, and 
brown. Drab mud walls were brightened with patterns 
of flowers and birds. 

Servants in their semi-annual new clothes pattered 
gaily over the cobblestones, balancing on their heads 
large trays of sweetmeats, cakes, and flower gifts. Mah¬ 
mud had early hastened to Mas’udeh Khanoum with a 
trayful of the now rare as\ari grapes from his mistress’ 
storeroom, where they had been carefully preserved from 
last autumn. 

Mustapha Khan, setting out to pay his official festival 
call on the governor, searched for a droshky that would 
be in keeping with his own smart appearance, climbed 
in, and gave instructions to the driver. He noted with 
pleasure the details of his equipage. The driver was 
wearing a new hat, his whip was adorned with a single 
paper rose fastened to the handle, and his gray horses 
had their haunches and tails stained with henna. A 
cluster of bright blue beads twined in their manes kept 
off the Evil Eye. 

The droshky rolled smoothly along the river road, 
narrowly missed several pedestrians who were prome¬ 
nading in the splendor of holiday attire, crossed an 
ancient high-arched bridge which spanned the Hama- 
dan river, and then rattled up a short lane to stop 
abruptly before an open gate. On the great pole above 



74 


Jasmine 


the gate fluttered a flag—stripes of red, white, and 
green with an emblem of the Lion and Sun on the 
central stripe. 

A uniformed servant led Mustapha Khan up the steep 
stone stairs and along a balcony to a door that opened 
on the garden. As soon as the servant had announced 
his presence, Mustapha Khan stepped into the room and 
made salutation to the governor. 

“May you be blessed in the New Year!” they ex¬ 
claimed simultaneously, according to the Persian tradi¬ 
tion, which holds any hesitation discourteous. To wait 
for another to make first greeting would imply that one 
felt oneself superior and even in a person of higher rank 
this would be accounted as snobbishness. 

The governor’s receiving room was furnished with 
handmade walnut Morris chairs, a dozen at least, ar¬ 
ranged with military precision in stiff rows around the 
room. Some of the guests, however, sat on the floor, 
on the luxurious rugs, to which they were more accus¬ 
tomed. 

Mustapha Khan drank two glasses of tea in silence. 
Meantime he listened to the other guests discussing the 
proposed plan for a central, municipal flower garden 
and six straight avenues through the city radiating from 
the flower garden. 

All conceded that the project would beautify the city, 
but each expressed objections, secretly fearing that his 
own property in the bazaar would be confiscated or 



No Ruz 


21 


his merchandise turned over to the wreckers in an un¬ 
expected night onslaught on the bazaar section. 

It was not long after the last of the other guests had 
departed that Mustapha Khan realized the servant must 
have been instructed to admit no further callers. The 
governor looked at his young caller intently and cleared 
his throat. 

“Your No Ruz gift was delivered to me this morning. 
I am very grateful to you. It shall be a good memory 
in my life. You have worked with me only a short time, 
Mustapha Khan, but I already see that you can become 
valuable to me. Therefore, it was with regret that I 
acceded to certain changes that have been proposed for 
my department.” 

The young legal aide cast a startled look of appre¬ 
hension at the governor. New Year’s Day was the time 
when changes frequently occurred in government posi¬ 
tions, as well as the customary date for signing contracts. 
Could it be that he was to be discharged? He mentally 
reviewed recent happenings, but could see no occasion 
for dissatisfaction with his work. 

“Yes, Your Excellency,” he smiled stiffly at last. 

The governor fingered his moustache thoughtfully, 
deliberately lengthening the suspense and increasing 
his listener’s anxiety. 

“Do you recall that the Head of the Department of 
Finance, acting in his capacity as tax collector, has made 
frequent visits to my office recently and that he has often 



76 


Jasmine 


demanded to see the papers you have prepared for cer¬ 
tain cases? 

“Very well! He now demands that you, my young 
friend, be transferred to the Department of Finance to 
work directly with him. Because of his large property 
holdings and great personal influence, the Ministry at 
Teheran has granted his petition.” 

Mustapha Khan relaxed. 

“It is my misfortune, while yet it is good fortune. I 
am indebted to you for delivering to me the news of this 
promotion, Your Excellency, but I am indeed loath to 
sever an association which has been so pleasant.” 

“So you call this both good news and bad,” the gov¬ 
ernor laughed, pleased by his young assistant’s compli¬ 
mentary speech. “Then how would the poet class me? 
‘Keep to yourself any intelligence that may prove un¬ 
pleasant, till some person else has disclosed it:—Bring, 
O nightingale! the glad tidings of spring, and let the 
owl be the harbinger of evil.’ 

“Nevertheless, Mustapha Khan, your place will always 
be green. Your new work, I daresay, will take you into 
the provinces at frequent intervals, and I myself may 
be transferred to another province at any time. But 
come to see me some time when you are in the city and 
I am still in Hamadan.” 

There was much rejoicing in the little household 
when Mustapha came home to tell his good news. This 
promotion meant a great deal in his career, as Farrukh 



No Ruz 


11 


was quick to realize. His first act was to call immedi¬ 
ately upon the tax collector, who happened to be in 
Hamadan at the time; while Farrukh, as a good wife 
prepared to second her husband’s official duties, lost no 
time in making a formal visit both to the governor’s 
wife and the wife of the tax collector. 

It was a new experience, a new enlarging of her social 
world, and she felt a little timidity as she chose the 
garments best fitted for this first official call. But the 
governor’s lady was gracious to her shy young guest, 
remembering perhaps a time when she herself had gone 
through the same ordeal. When Farrukh sat down, the 
black silk chuddur falling about her shoulders, her fat, 
kindly hostess waddled toward her with a slender silver 
ewer in her hands. Farrukh cupped her fingers to¬ 
gether, while the woman poured rosewater into her 
hands. 

“May your hand never pain you!” she murmured 
softly, as she quickly patted the rosewater on the top 
of her head and on her cheeks. 

“May your heart never pain you!” the hostess re¬ 
sponded. 

On the tray from which Farrukh was served were 
many delicacies. With a diminutive silver spoon she 
helped herself to two or three of the delicious rose- 
berries floating in a tiny bowl of sweetened rosewater. 
And with housewifely zeal she made a mental note of 
this delectable concoction, resolving to gather some of 



78 


Jasmine 


the red seed pods from her own rose bushes next autumn 
and preserve them in rosewater syrup. 

That evening the young husband and wife stood to¬ 
gether on their flat roof to watch the fireworks that 
were being set off from the neighboring housetops in 
celebration of the New Year. Farrukh told about her 
visit and the kindly reception she had met with. Mus- 
tapha too had much to discuss, for he was tending more 
and more, as Farrukh proudly realized, to the Western 
custom of sharing with her his thoughts and plans. She 
would be his helpmate, not merely his wife according 
to the old tradition; she too must share the responsi¬ 
bilities of the new position. 

Around them, as the twilight slowly deepened into 
night, a chain of flashing lights appeared along the lower 
slopes of the mountains which swept in a crescent about 
the Hamadan plain. A cluster of brilliant splashes 
marked the festivities of each of the many villages in 
the foothills, while nearer at hand sky rockets and roman 
candles rose and fell in flashes of colored light. 

The housetops along the Street of The Mulberry Trees 
were crowded with laughing groups. On a nearby roof 
several boys were touching off firecrackers and sky rock¬ 
ets. Their father placidly sat on the cylindrical stone 
which was used to roll the sod roof, smoking his ciga¬ 
rette and counting off the amber beads of his rosary. The 
two youngest children kept their mother in a constant 
panic, running to the edge of the roof as if to jump off. 



No Ruz 


79 


“Look! look!” Farrukh cried to her husband. “That 
last rocket shot off in a curve and went down into some¬ 
one’s garden.” 

Scarcely had she spoken when an irate housewife ap¬ 
peared on a neighboring roof, her face half uncovered 
so she could better shout across the housetops. 

“What do you young rascals mean?” she screamed. 
“Your fireworks broke my window and burned a hole 
in my rug.” 

The youngest lad was quick with a retort. 

“ ‘If thou art displeased with us, do not look sour, for 
thou art already sufficiently offensive.’ ” 

His brother, a schoolboy with a fair knowledge of 
literature, continued, “ ‘An assemblage is formed of 
roses and tulips, and thou art stuck up amidst them like 
a withered stalk.’ ” 

But their glee was short-lived. The father, roughly 
shaking them into silence, apologized to the aggrieved 
neighbor for his sons’ impudence and damage to her 
property, and then commanded the boys to empty their 
pockets of coins to pay for the broken window pane. 

“But, Father,” they cried in dismay, “these pennies are 
to buy powder balls. How can we celebrate No Ruz 
without a few powder balls to throw on the cobblestones 
and startle everyone by their explosion?”’ 

“No!” their father remained adamant. “You were 
rude to the woman. That is why you must use your 
own money. Remember this always: A peasant can 



go _ Jasmine 

be as polite as a prince. You are neither peasant nor 
prince, but it behooves you to learn this lesson of po- 
liteness.” 

“He speaks truly,” Mustapha Khan murmured to 
his wife. “If you expect to get on in the world, you must 
put honey on your tongue.” 

For ten days No Ruz leavened society with its bright 
colors and gaiety. For ten days women called upon each 
other, drinking tea and eating hard sweet cakes, and 
men sat in open gardens of the public tea house, smok¬ 
ing the sociable water pipe and “eating the air.” 

On the last day of the festival, women carried to the 
river their jugs on which blades of wheat were growing 
thickly, and threw them into the turbulent current. Thus 
they symbolically discarded all the griefs and ills which 
had accumulated during the past months, and were 
ready to start the new year with fresh water jugs and 
fresh hope and vitality. 




VIII 

WISHES 

Sunlight sifted through the slender green leaves of 
the almond trees, making a pattern of light and shadow. 
Bareheaded, her hands clasped idly on her lap, Farrukh 
sat gazing round her on this enclosed garden that she 
loved, and her thoughts went back to the familiar home 
garden in Tuhistan, to the days before her marriage and 
the morning when she had stood, trembling and doubt¬ 
ful, before the old matchmaker in her mother’s house. 
So much had happened since then! 


81 



























82 


Jasmine 


She could smile now, remembering that morning’s 
trickery, though it still brought a little flush to her 
cheeks. Today she could read in earnest 5 the first 
drudgery of her lessons with the mirza was over, and 
he was proud of his pupil. In other ways too she was 
little by little learning to become the accomplished help¬ 
ful wife that she longed to be. Her weaving was going 
well; even Mustapha’s mother praised the work that 
her looms were turning out. Her husband’s new affairs 
were prospering; life was running smoothly. 

And she herself, she knew, had developed in many 
ways from the timid country girl who had come to this 
house as a bride those many months ago. She was learn¬ 
ing a new social ease and confidence, and formal calls 
no longer terrified her. The ladies of rank with whom 
she was brought in contact were kindly women, well 
disposed towards her, and she felt able now to hold her 
own in their company as befitted the young wife of a 
rising government official. Yes, the New Year had be¬ 
gun well and was full of hopeful promise. 

What else could a girl desire, married to a rich kjian 
—a man of wealth, family and position—who was good 
to her and gave her servants and fine clothes! One thing 
and one only; with that her happiness would be full. 
In recent weeks a vague uneasiness had begun to crowd 
itself to the fore and overshadow the bright joyousness 
of her life. Seven months had passed since her wedding 
day, and as yet she had no intimations of motherhood. 



Wishes 


83 


Not that she was eager to assume the restrictions and 
burdens of motherhood—she was only seventeen and 
still child enough to find much simple pleasure in social 
affairs, in new clothes, and shopping trips to the bazaar 
—but she feared her husband’s disfavor if she could not 
give him sons. Suppose two years passed and she bore 
him no children! What then? He would have just 
cause to divorce her, or he might even bring another 
wife into the home. And how could she bear to share 
her home with another woman? 

She recalled an incident which had occurred one day 
when she had gone to the foreign dispensary to be vac¬ 
cinated. She was waiting her turn when a man and two 
women came into the doctor’s garden. At sight of the 
man she had quickly covered her face, but not before 
she had noticed that one of the women was holding a 
blood-stained cloth to her mouth. The second woman 
kept her face covered and walked behind the man , Be¬ 
fore this urgent need, the doctor let other patients wait 
while he attended to the njury. 

“They are my wives and they were fighting,” the man 
explained. “This one,” pointing to the veiled figure, 
“is a little tiger. She bit the lip off. I hope you can sew 
it on again. I dislike an ugly woman.” 

“The husband of an ugly woman should be blind,” 
Farrukh had unconsciously recalled the common saying. 
And she had listened in distress to the woman’s shrieks 
of pain as stitch after stitch was taken in the tender flesh. 



8 4 


Jasmine 


Then she heard the man say roughly, “Now, you little 
vixen! Take off your bracelets and earrings and pay 
for this.” As she began now to think of the unpleasant 
possibility of having another woman in her home, she 
said to herself fiercely: 

“But I would do the same, indeed! I would bite off 
her lip, and both ears, too.” 

Although Mustapha Khan had given her the little 
white donkey to ride whenever she chose, she had been 
loath to set out on the long journey over the mountain 
to consult with her mother in Tuhistan, about her prob¬ 
lem. Mas’udeh Khanoum, though she thought she 
had been kind to her son’s wife, was nevertheless too 
critical in her attitude to invite confidence. Nothing 
remained but to listen to the \ulfat, and the \ulfat’s tales 
were all of miracles and magic. Magic, the \ulfat said, 
would bring her heart’s desire. 

Well, if prayers and longing failed, might not magic 
work? Would not her mother tell her to use that very 
means? For all her modern ambitions, in some ways 
Farrukh was still at heart a simple Persian girl, brought 
up in the tradition and superstitions of her people. And 
she, as well as the \ulfat, knew the particular magic 
which was now needed. 

At the intersection of three winding streets near the 
heart of the city there was an irregular common, a bar¬ 
ren triangle partly appropriated for burial space by the 
poorest beggars and partly used for display space by a 




Wishes 


*5 


baker who hung his long, brown sheets of bread on the 
wall outside his shop. Schoolboys on their homeward 
way often loitered in the broad area for a game of 
knuckle-bones. 

Like a sleepy sentinel among the gravestones and 
gamblers stood the Wishing Fountain, a dreary little 
structure of mud brick adorned with arabesque tiles 
which in many places had fallen out and left disfiguring 
blotches of gray. Innumerable padlocks, rags, and string 
fretted the delicate iron grillwork of the window arches. 
Like a garland adorning the brow of a faded beauty 
grew straggling daisies along the rim of the hard-rolled 
sod roof. 

Long ago some grateful soul had built this protection 
over a precious water supply and someone else had im¬ 
agined that this particular water had exhibited miracu¬ 
lous powers. And so it had come about that men be¬ 
lieved they could drink of this water and make their 
wishes come true. 

As Farrukh sat mournfully in the garden, seriously 
considering for herself the advisability of a visit to the 
Wishing Fountain, the \ulfat passed by, on her way to 
the public bath. Quickly the sharp eyes of the old ser¬ 
vant read trouble in the mind of her adored young mis¬ 
tress, and she hesitated before her. For thoroughly as 
she enjoyed her hours in the steam room, gossiping with 
the other women, gladly would she forego that pleasure 
to lighten the burden of sadness for her beloved one. 



86 


Jasmine 


But no, her mistress wished to be alone, for now she 
was saying, “Why do you not have your hair henna-ed 
today? And your fingernails and toenails? When we go 
with the master to Tuhistan next week, you will wish 
to look beautiful for your family.” 

The \uljat bowed, adjusting her veil and taking tight¬ 
er hold on the bundle of clean clothes tied up in a cot¬ 
ton square. It should be as the young mistress wished. 
If she would be alone for the three hours that a good 
henna treatment demanded, alone she should be. 

With impatience, Farrukh watched the \ulfat depart. 
For her mind was now definitely made up. She would 
go to the Wishing Fountain, and if possible to the Stone 
Lion which was reputed to have in rare degree the magic 
power of which she was in such special need just now. 

As soon as it was safe to do so, therefore, Farrukh 
slipped from the garden and hastened down the street. 
In one hand she held a bowl of sheep fat; in the other, 
a padlock. Her heavy black veil hid her face and con¬ 
cealed the objects in her hands. And no one noticed her 
as she sped along. 

Now she had reached the common and was picking 
her way past the stony graves. Quickening her steps, 
she hastened toward the fountain, gazing curiously as 
she circled it. The side nearest the street wall was open. 
She went in. One stone in the floor had been removed 
and was lying at the side. A faint light flickered from 
a narrow ledge where a burning cotton wick floated in 



Wishes 


17 


a saucer of castor oil. Farrukh saw its reflection dancing 
in the water. Then she stooped over the opening, dip¬ 
ped the gourd into the cool flowing water, and drank. 
On the ledge beside the lamp she laid a coin. The shop¬ 
keeper nearby collected the money and purchased castor 
oil for the little shrine lamp. 

Having drunk of the fountain, Farrukh spread open 
her tiny padlock, made her wish, and locked it into the 
fountain grillwork. Other wishes were tied on with 
string or rags, but hers was more firmly secured. As she 
turned away, she spoke to herself half aloud and wholly 
exultant. 

“On the Wishing Fountain my wish shall stay until 
I bear a man-child.” 

Turning from the Wishing Fountain, Ferrukh hesi¬ 
tated. Ought she to go to the Stone Lion, after all? She 
had brought the bowl of sheep fat especially to propitiate 
him and win his favor. But the Stone Lion was outside 
the city. It was unheard-of for a woman of her station 
to venture there alone. Well Farrukh knew that she 
risked her husband’s anger if he ever came to know of 
such a visit. 

And yet, and yet? Here she was, safely away from 
home and with the kulfat disposed of for hours. Such 
a chance might never come again. It would be easy to 
slip out to the Stone Lion and back, with no one the 
wiser. And had not the old servant assured her she 
would find in the ancient statue a magic far more power- 



88 


Jasmine 


ful than that of the Wishing Fountain? The thought 
drew her like a magnet. Surely it was right for her to 
risk anything, at all, in such a cause! 

For a bare moment longer, Farrukh stood motionless. 
Then, drawing her veil still closer about her, she set 
out, her heart beating fast. As swiftly as she could she 
toiled over the rough cobblestones until she reached the 
edge of the city. There she took the sandy road which 
traversed the plain in a southeasterly direction. No need 
to ask her way; the \ulfat had described it to her time 
and again. There was only the one road to take, and 
before Farrukh had followed it very far she saw the 
Stone Lion before her—one of a pair which legend said 
had guarded the entrance to the palace of Darius. 

The centuries had left their mark on old Sang-i-Sheer , 
the Stone Lion, and his nose rubbed one of the many 
sandstone rocks which abound on the Hamadan plain. 
Weathering had effaced some of the sculptured lines of 
his rocky bulk, and formed shallow pockets in his head 
and shoulders. But he was still a giant, this eleven feet 
of solid stone, still the king of beasts. 

A handful of pebbles lay heaped on his head, votive 
offering of some other wishful woman. On the ground 
at frequent intervals were piles of small stones, heaped 
up by fearful wayfarers in anticipation of a chance meet¬ 
ing with the Devil. Throughout the length and breadth 
of the land were these haphazard stone piles wherever 
there was danger of meeting him—on the outskirts of 




The centuries had left their mark on old Sangi-i-Sheer 






















Wishes 


89 


a village, along a mountain pass, or in some deep ravine. 

Were Farrukh to be suddenly surprised by the appear¬ 
ance of that Evil Spirit as she stood there surveying the 
ancient sculpture, she had but to reach down and gather 
up a handful of stones and fling them at the jinn, who 
would straightway flee from sight. And then, in grati¬ 
tude for her deliverance, she would rebuild the heap for 
the next wayfarer. 

The sheep fat in the little green bowl had melted in 
the afternoon heat. Farrukh dipped her fingers into 
the grease, lifted them dripping to the lion’s head, and 
rubbed his face and shoulders with the unsavory oint¬ 
ment. Each stroke of her fingers rubbed her wish more 
deeply into his weatherbeaten features. 

“Oh, that I might have a man-child! That I might 
bring my husband joy with many children!” 

She stooped to pick up stones to place a heap on the 
head of the lion in celebration of her wish. 

“Insh’allah! If God wills, there will be a child now. 
The Wishing Fountain and the Stone Lion can not both 
fail” 

Looking up from her ceremonial task, she was star¬ 
tled to see a girl standing nearby. She had heard no 
sound, either of carriage wheels or donkey or footsteps 
on the stony soil. Then she noticed that the girl’s feet 
were bare, broad and brown and dusty, and that her 
veil was coarse and faded and torn. 

“And do you too desire children?” Farrukh asked. 



90 


Jasmine 


“No! no!” the other replied bitterly. “I have come 
to seek a husband.” 

“But how can that be? Is it not arranged for you by 
your family?” 

“My family cannot arrange it. There is no dowry and 
my face is very plain. I have waited a long time.” 

“And what do you propose to do now? 

“Do you not know? It is a custom among the Hama- 
danis. I shall sit on the Stone Lion, all day, perhaps 
many days, and by that token it is made known that I 
desire to marry. I am bound to accept the first man who 
asks me, even if he desires only a temporary wife.” 

The girl winced as Farrukh shuddered and involun¬ 
tarily drew back. 

“It is hard, yes,” she continued. “But how much 
harder is it to see my father and mother grow old and 
to know that after they are gone I shall have no home 
unless I marry, or beg in the streets and live in the city 
house.” 

She clambered awkwardly, reluctantly, onto the Stone 
Lion to wait. Farrukh picked up her green bowl, drew 
the veil across her face, mumbled a faint “May God pro¬ 
tect you!” and turned into the sandy road which led 
back to the city. 

Where the road sweeps around the southern end of 
the Musallah hill, there stands a rude little tower which 
looks as if it might have been built to defend this en¬ 
trance to the city, so squat and thickset is it and so com- 



Wishes 


9 £ 


manding in its location. That it is only a brick kiln is 
a pity, for it has all the marks of a medieval watchtower. 

The Musallah itself is a long oval hill which domi¬ 
nates the Hamadan plain, a perfectly planned acropolis, 
and was even so used by Astyages the Mede, who built 
on it the royal treasury surrounded by seven walls of 
seven colors; and still later by Cyrus the Great and 
Alexander the Great. 

The brick kiln excited Farrukh’s curiosity and she 
walked past it slowly. Since her coming to Hamadan, 
she had never once been outside the city, never even to 
a spot from which she could see the outlines of the an¬ 
cient acropolis. So now that her path ran along the 
base of the stronghold, her feet unconsciously strayed 
from the sweeping curve of the road in an impulse to 
explore the ruins that straggled across its rocky slopes. 
The half distinguishable outlines of what once must 
have been a watchtower occupied the southern end. 

So, happy in the completion of her mission, Farrukh 
climbed the slope with eager steps, pausing now and 
then to admire a wild tulip or crocus and even stopping 
long enough to dig out a tiny purple hyacinth plant 
with a bit of broken pottery which lay on the ground. 
On the hilltop she climbed to the highest point of the 
pile of ruins and overlooked the plain. 

The city was one waving mass of dusty green, for 
every garden, however small, had its tall, slim poplar 
trees planted beside the narrow irrigation streams. 



92 


Jasmine 


Four great pointed domes rose above the monoto¬ 
nously flat housetops. The beautiful glazed tile dome and 
slender minarets of the Friday Mosque stood out boldly 
against the western sky. In the bazaar section rose an¬ 
other dome with its twin towers. Farrukh had often 
noticed it in the bazaar, for its dome was patterned in 
intricate lines of blue and yellow and black. The other 
smaller domes without minarets marked the location 
of two famous tombs: the one, of Esther and Mordecai, 
which the \uljat had visited during the Jewish feast of 
Purim, and the other, of Avicenna—Ibn Sina, A. D. 
100—the great Persian physician. 

Farrukh raised her eyes to the skyline. Across the 
plain to the east lay the village of Shevarin, its brief 
road lined with mulberry trees for some distance out of 
Hamadan. Two long, low ridges of red marked the 
barren hills where picnickers often picked up fossils— 
ferns pressed into the rock, and shell formations—evi¬ 
dence of an ancient, vanished lake. She remembered 
this as she looked toward The Crest of The Cock and 
wished that some time Mustapha Khan would take her 
to these hills that she might search for some of the 
curious stones. 

The crescent sweep of mountains reached its greatest 
height in the south, where the majestic Ya\h Chal lift¬ 
ed its ever-snowy summit fourteen thousand feet into 
the turquoise heavens. 

“On the other side of Ya\h Chal lies Tuhistan,” Far- 



Wishes 


93 


rukh was thinking, “and soon I shall be going back. I 
shall see my mother, and father, and all my brothers. 

And there is Elvend, the most beautiful mountain of 
all. The snow on the slopes makes the Praying Woman 
look as if she were wearing a white chuddur.” 

Having completed the circle of horizon, she climbed 
down from the ruins and picked her way over the rocky 
surface to the remains of a double wall which enclosed 
a vast area on the top of the hill. 

“A palace must have been built here,” she mused, “a 
palace or a fort. It must have been very important to 
require double walls.” 

Seeing a wide break in the wall, out of curiosity she 
climbed through. But she had no more than cast a 
glance into the enclosure when she was startled to see 
a group of men squatting on the ground in a far corner 
with books and papers on their knees. At the same 
instant they saw the veiled figure. In a flash they picked 
up stones and began to throw them at her. 

“Go away! Go away! Child of a burnt father, get 
out of here!” they shouted at her and the stones struck 
her body with stinging force. 

Farrukh turned and fled, but not before she had rec¬ 
ognized, or at least thought she recognized, one of the 
angry faces turned toward her. It was that of Abbas, 
the father of her little weaver. 

Terror lent speed to her feet. As she ran, she stum¬ 
bled and fell over rocks, bruising her hands on the sharp 



Jasmine 


24 

stones and tearing her veil; then she scrambled to her 
feet and ran on again. 

“Khuda bikunad! God grant that I may get safely 
out of here! ” she prayed in terror. She, a decent woman, 
had been stoned and called a vile name! She might 
even have been caught and held prisoner by those men. 
Oh, why had she ever left the highway? A respectable 
woman, especially one of high family, did not wander 
about the hillsides unattended. Of what could she have 
been thinking to forget herself so far! 

It seemed hours before she was again in the familiar 
Street of The Mulberry Trees, entering her own garden, 
hearing the stout door close solidly behind her, the 
heavy wooden bolt creak complainingly into place. Her 
garden, and she had come back safely! Farrukh sighed 
in infinite relief. 

Her relief would have been shattered had she known 
that even then a thickset, heavily bearded man was 
standing across the street, nodding his head slowly, al¬ 
most imperceptibly, as if he had just recalled something 
important. 

But Farrukh did not know. Inside the house, she was 
soon busily removing all traces of her hasty flight, chang¬ 
ing her torn clothing, smoothing her hair, and puzzling 
over that strange gathering upon which she had stum¬ 
bled. Had Abbas recognized her? Oh, surely not, for 
he would never have dared attack her if he had known 
who she was. 



Wishes 


95 


But what were he and the others doing? How was it 
that this strange, even sinister man—as she now felt 
him to be—seemed to cross her path so mysteriously? 
That morning driving in the bazaar, with the Colonel, 
as Mahmud had sworn? And now? 

Soon another question perplexed her. Should she tell 
Mustapha Khan what had happened? Her instinct 
urged her to do so, for deep in her heart she felt that 
the surprised group had been up to no good and that 
her husband, as a member of the Government Staff, 
should know of the suspicious circumstance. But her 
fear was stronger than her instinct. If she told him of 
that meeting, she must tell the whole story, explain 
how she had happened to be wandering there alone. 
How angry he would be then! More than anything 
else, Farrukh dreaded Mustapha Khan’s anger, for she 
loved him and wished to please him with her every 
action. 

If only there were someone, some member of her own 
family here in whom she could confide, whose advice 
she might ask. Bitterly now she regretted the impulse 
that had led her out. No, she dared not tell Mustapha 
Khan, even though there might be something about 
that secret gathering that he, as Government official, 
ought to know. 

Then, with relief, she remembered the long-planned 
visit to her old home the next week. To be sure! She 
would talk this, too, over with her mother. Why had 



96 


Jasmine 


she not thought of that before? Smiling, now, she 
glanced at the two tall glasses of amber sherbat that she 
had poured out in readiness for her husband’s return. 
Only an hour to sunset, and for some reason the ice 
carrier had not yet arrived. Everything this afternoon 
seemed to be going wrong! 

It was at this moment that a light knock sounded on 
the gate. She waited impatiently, but neither the ice 
carrier nor her husband appeared. Instead, the gate¬ 
keeper ambled across the gravel path and stood in the 
doorway. 

“Khanoum,” he bowed respectfully, “an errand boy 
brought a message for you.” He handed her a slip of 
paper, ingeniously folded together. 

She opened it and stared at the broad, purple pen 
strokes. Yes, she could read it. Then she crumpled it 
in a shaking hand and thrust it inside her blouse. 

“Silence is always golden,” the note read. “A woman 
who does not wish to be divorced knows when to hold 
her tongue.” 








IX 

THE LANDLORD’S RETURN 


The day set for the journey to Tuhistan had come at 
last. For weeks Farrukh had been looking forward 
eagerly to this trip, the first visit home since her wedding 
day. Many times, especially of late, she had felt a little 
wave of homesickness sweep over her whenever she 
thought of home and family, and once the visit was 
decided upon it had seemed as though the intervening 
days would never pass. 


97 











98 


Jasmine 


Mounted on her little white donkey, riding just a 
few paces behind Mustapha Khan, who led the tiny 
cavalcade, she looked about her at the fields on either 
side of the road, fresh with the tender green of young 
wheat and the flowers, scarlet and blue and yellow, that 
everywhere dotted the ground with gay color. An eager 
happiness filled her heart. All the countryside was 
lovely with spring, like a giant carpet of blossom spread 
before the eye; indeed, the first weavers of Persian rugs 
might well have been inspired in their patterns by these 
flower-strewn fields that crowded close to the city walls. 

As the string of donkeys pattered briskly forward, the 
little bells on their blue-beaded necklaces tinkled cheer¬ 
fully on the morning air. Behind Farrukh, wrapped in 
her black silk veil, rode Mahmud, his white shirt tails 
fluttering from under his coat and his brimless black 
felt cap pushed back on his head. He was thoroughly 
enjoying the ride and kicked his heels against the ani¬ 
mal’s sides as he jogged along, from time to time bellow¬ 
ing a loud “ Huhhhhhhh” of encouragement. Last of 
all rode the \ulfat, beautifully henna-ed, fully as eager 
and excited as her young mistress, and straddled across 
a pair of bulging saddlebags that all but hid the patient 
little donkey underneath. 

Alternating with the patches of young grain were 
other fields, where cultivated poppies were just begin¬ 
ning to spread their leaves of silver green. Passing one 
of these, Mustapha Khan turned to speak to his wife. 



TheLandlord’s Return 


99 


“These fields were all in wheat last year,” he re¬ 
marked. But the price of wheat is almost nothing, and 
there is no profit in it now. This year a number of 
landlords are planting poppies for opium. Opium al¬ 
ways brings a good price, even when the government 
regulates the commerce in it.” 

“How does the government control it?” asked Far- 
rukh. 

“By requiring the growers to bring their crop to our 
office, her husband explained. “There it is weighed, 
stamped, and sealed with official paper. Then it may be 
sold in the bazaar. But anyone caught making even the 
initial transaction in unstamped opium is liable to severe 
punishment. 

“The Government requires this recording,” Mustapha 
Khan continued, “partly to have a check on the amount 
that is used at home and the amount that leaves the 
country. Far too many people use the drug today. 
Where there is no doctor for many farsaghs around, it 
is perhaps excusable that people resort to its use to still 
the pain and suffering of illness. Insh’allah, the time 
will come when the Government will permit only 
enough to be grown to take care of this demand for 
medicinal purposes. But how many people today have 
begun the practice of smoking only for the brief mo¬ 
ment of pleasure, and now pay with minds and bodies 
wrecked! And still there are people who try to evade 
having their opium registered, and instead smuggle it 



100 


Jasmine 


across the border and down to the gulf where private 
ships carry it away to foreign lands for illicit trade. 
Smuggled opium is sold at a higher price, you know. 
So some men make a business of smuggling and have 
an elaborate organization. 

“Just the other day a man was brought before the tax 
collector. It was thought that he belonged to one of 
these opium rings. But we could not produce absolute 
proof. So we had to let him go. 

As he spoke there flashed into Farrukh’s mind a rec¬ 
ollection of that secret gathering she had stumbled upon 
in the ruins on the Musallah. Had that anything to do 
with opium smuggling? It was on the tip of her tongue 
to tell Mustapha about it and to mention again the odor 
of opium she always noticed upon Abbas. But to do so 
she would have also to confess her escapade that day, 
and that she dared not do. What were the words of that 
mysterious note: “A. womun who docs not wish to be 
divorced . . .?” 

Farrukh bit her lip. Better say nothing, for the pres¬ 
ent certainly. Perhaps after all it was just a foolish 
notion of hers, simply because he had mentioned smug¬ 
gling. There might be a dozen other reasons for men 
to meet in secret. She would not discuss distressing 
thoughts on so happy an occasion as this. 

Soon the checkerboard expanse of cultivated fields 
was left behind; they were beginning the long climb up 
the mountainside. The incline was steep and the path 



The Landlord*s Return 


IOI 


rough. Often the donkeys had to pick their way 
through stony stream beds. On either side flowering 
plum and black cherry trees made a snowy haze as the 
little company passed through ravines whose abundant 
water supply from melting snows nourished these care¬ 
fully tended orchards high above the city. 

Then they came out on the open mountainside. The 
road wound like a dusty white ribbon round the curves 
of the slope. Here and there the barrenness of the stony 
brown soil was relieved by patches of low-spreading 
camel thorn, a maze of pink bloom. Though the land 
might be a dusty brown desert most of the year, for a 
few weeks in the spring it was one vast fairy garden in 
which hill and plain were abloom with wild tulips and 
hyacinths, crocus, daisies and poppies, with the delicate 
pink of camel thorn and the vivid blue of the chicory. 

Around the bend appeared the ice carrier’s donkey, 
staggering under a load of ice. At sight of the other 
donkeys, it spread open its jaws in a mighty shrieking 
bray. The salute was answered in kind. With difficulty 
the ice carrier got his animal past the others without 
upsetting his ice. 

“God give you strength!” Mahmud called out jovially. 
At home it had been his job to open the gate and hold 
the donkey quiet each day when the man brought ice. 
Now he hugely enjoyed riding along leisurely like a 
gentleman, while the ice carrier struggled with his ob¬ 
stinate beast. 



102 


Jasmine 


Far up the mountain in a sunless ravine the ice fields 
spread for a great distance. Flowers and shrubs there 
were none. The air was cold and rarified. Each rider 
dismounted and walked along cautiously beside his 
donkey, man and beast alike breathing with effort in the 
high altitude. A long and painful journey it was, but 
once they had gotten over the pass and started the de¬ 
scent on the southern side they found the air balmier, 
even though patches of snow still remained in the shad¬ 
ow of the great boulders. 

Now the valley opened before them, and at each fa¬ 
miliar landmark Farrukh’s happiness grew. A patch 
of darker green, the famous walnut trees, marked the 
spot where the village of Tuhistan clung to the steep 
slope and sprawled into the ravine. The journey was 
almost over. 

Now at last they could see the dome of the little 
village mosque rising above the flat, well-remembered 
housetops. The panorama was the most beautiful sight 
in the world to the old \ulfat, who kicked her donkey 
vigorously and shouted out with glad excitement. 

Alhamdulallahl Praise the Lord! We have arrived. 
Speed up, there, beast!” It was with difficulty that she 
kept due place at the end of the procession. 

On the edge of the village, more pretentious than its 
neighbors, lay the garden of Abdullah, Farrukh’s father, 
the village headman. Since his house was headquarters 
for the landlord or any other passing guests, he received 







Now the valley opened before them. 















The Landlord’s Return 


IQ5 


from Mustapha Khan a small annual cash gift for fur¬ 
nishing a guest room and consequently kept his house 
and garden in much better repair than most of the others. 

Before the great gate Mahmud slid off his donkey 
and gave the iron knocker a resounding thump. 

“Who is it?” called a voice within. 

“Open! It is the master, Mustapha Khan,” Mahmud 
announced grandly. A vast commotion arose inside, a 
babble of voices and the patter of feet running in many 
directions. The wooden bolt rattled as it was pushed 
back and the door swung open on creaking hinges, while 
the gatekeeper and his family gathered to greet the 
master. 

“Salaam-n-alei\um\ You come fortunately.” 

Mustapha Khan and Farrukh returned the saluta¬ 
tion and then everyone was saying to them at once: 

“Light to our eyes! May your arrival be good! ” 

The guests dismounted and were escorted to the house, 
Farrukh walking a few paces behind her husband. 

Abdullah and the boys had already come part way 
down the gravel path. 

“Peace be to you!” they greeted the Khan. “What is 
the state of your health?” 

“Praise the Lord, it is good!” Mustapha Khan replied 
as he went inside with the men. At the upper end of the 
room, farthest from the door, he kneeled on the rug, 
crossed his feet, and sat back on his heels. The \ad\hoda 



io6 


Jasmine 


and his sons did the same, but in a lower station of the 
room. 

Tea was brought in by a manservant and conversation 
ceased while everyone drank the two ceremonial glasses, 
noisily sucking the strong beverage through lumps of 
sugar held between their teeth. 

Then the eldest son left the room for a moment and 
returned with a tall water pipe which was ornamented 
with fishes and roses and had a long, flexible tube attach¬ 
ment instead of the customary short, stiff pipe. This he 
placed on the floor before Mustapha Khan, gravely set¬ 
ting it down with both hands. 

“You are taking great trouble. May your hand never 
pain you!” the guest replied, and noticing the young 
man particularly, he continued: 

“What has become of the beauty of thy countenance, 
that a beard has sprung up round the orb of the moon?” 

“I know not what has befallen my face,” the youth 
answered, “unless it has put on black to mourn its de¬ 
parted charms.” 

Everyone laughed heartily, for Rahmon took great 
pride in the faint, black fuzz that was beginning to 
cloud his cheeks. Rahmon, however, cared not at all 
for their laughter. He liked Mustapha Khan and knew, 
as did no one else in the room, that the guest was but 
quoting one of the poets. In fact, he liked Mustapha 
Khan more than ever for thus giving him an occasion 
to show his own learning by completing the quotation. 





The Landlord's Return 


107 


Seeing that the guest was now made comfortable, the 
sons politely took their leave and left their father and 
his master to discuss conditions in the village. 

How was the winter wheat? How many fields were 
planted in barley this year? The little bridge outside the 
village must be repaired. How many villagers owed 
labor which could be applied on the project? 

The \ad\hoda, in turn, had his questions to ask the 
master. The man who operated the flour mill by the 
brook wanted his privilege tax of twenty dollars reduced 
to fifteen. Wheat had fallen so far in price that he 
could not collect enough in fees from his customers to 
make a profit at the business. 

“In fact,” Abdullah concluded, “he wants to work 
the mill on shares.” 

“I will turn it over in my mind,” the landlord con¬ 
sidered. “Tomorrow, perhaps, I will talk with him.” 

Manifestations of suppressed excitement in the ad¬ 
joining room could now no longer be ignored. The 
patter of slippered feet, the muted staccato of excited 
voices, and the welcome aroma of hot food gave Mus- 
tapha Khan his cue. It was therefore in the exercise of 
his right as landlord of the village and chief guest in 
the house that he politely said to his host, 

“Let the meal be served.” 

Instantly the door burst open and a procession of 
servants entered, bearing trays of savory food. For this 






io8 


Jasmine 


important occasion, the gatekeeper and several of his 
older sons had been drafted into house service. 

Rajab, the head of the staff, spread a fair white cloth 
on the rug directly in front of the guest. Then from 
each of the other servants he took the trays and bowls 
and marched up and down the dinner cloth in his stock¬ 
ing feet arranging the meal. 

A steaming mound of fluffy white rice on a big brass 
tray he set at the upper end. Surrounding it he placed 
bowls of chicken and apricot stew with bits of shredded 
almond; osh, a delicacy concocted of sour milk gravy 
with diced green vegetables; and mast, or clabber; a 
bowl of tender, stewed camel thistle stalks, not unlike 
asparagus, on which the nettles had not yet developed; 
long sheets of coarse, brown bread neatly folded in a 
stack; young onions and radishes. 

When all was arranged to his satisfaction, Rajab sig¬ 
naled the servants to depart and cast a last glance of 
inventory on the array before he took up his post near 
the door. 

“Bismillah, Rahmon, Rahim! In the name of God, 
the Merciful, the Compassionate!” Abdullah repeated 
reverently, and the meal began. 

Meanwhile, Farrukh had gone to her mother’s apart¬ 
ment at the far end of the house. 

“Your place is green,” Saltanet welcomed her daugh¬ 
ter fondly. 

With what joy did these two behold each other, they 




The Landlord’s Return 


109 


who had never been separated a day until the daugh¬ 
ter’s marriage! With what delight did they confide to 
each other the happenings of the seven long months, 
secrets and news and gossip. Farrukh described her new 
home and related how Mustapha Khan had discovered 
her deception. 

“But I have learned from the mirza. And not only 
can I now read and write, my mother. I have my own 
weaving room in the garden, with six weavers busily 
at work. When next I come, I shall bring with me a 
rug of my own designing.” 

Saltanet listened in amazement. “You are the most 
fortunate girl in the world,” she declared. “See to it 
that you always please your husband.” 

Farrukh caught her breath. See to it that you always 
please your husband. Yet she, who was so happy and 
so blessed in the head of her home, had done what 
would displease him! And she could not discuss her 
perplexity even with her own mother; she must deprive 
herself of the comfort of Saltanet’s advice. A woman 
who does not wish to be divorced knows when to hold 
her tongue. 

Saltanet, sensing her daughter’s distress, leaned af¬ 
fectionately toward her. “What is it that troubles you, 
my daughter? Why do you eat sorrow?” she asked 
softly. 

Farrukh looked sadly down at her clasped hands. 
What should she reply? Ah, she had it. “Yes, my 



no 


Jasmine 


mother. Will there be no son to gladden our hearts?” 

In silence, then, Saltanet listened to the fear that had 
been growing in her daughter’s mind, lest no children 
come to brighten the new home. And wisely she nodded 
her head when she heard of the expedition to the Wish¬ 
ing Fountain—the part of her adventure which Farrukh 
felt safe in relating. 

“Jinn or no jinn in that Fountain,” her mother com¬ 
mented, when Farrukh had finished her story, “what 
you should do now is go on a pilgrimage. Go to Qom 
or Ardabil. If v the Khan cannot take time to go so far, 
then go to some little shrine near Hamadan and pray 
for your desire. Do you remember old Mariam, who 
had twenty-two children? She thought she would never 
bear a child. But after she had gone on a pilgrimage, 
she was blessed with many children.” 

They were interrupted by the \ulfat slumping the 
saddlebags down on the brick verandah. 

“Be careful, Shokat, or you will break something in 
those bags,” Farrukh called out to her. The maid was 
already out of hearing, but soon returned bearing a tray 
with the women’s dinner. Their meal consisted of 
whatever had been left by the men. After the arduous 
ride over the mountain and the long wait after her 
arrival, Farrukh ate ravenously of the food, though it 
was already half cold. 

After the meal, Saltanet watched eagerly while Far¬ 
rukh unpacked the saddlebags, for a returned traveler 



The Landlord’s Return 


hi 


always brings presents to relatives and friends. For her 
mother there was a new water jug and a little hand- 
woven square of creamy cloth decorated with a hand- 
blocked design of palm leaves; for her father, a tur¬ 
quoise collar button; and for each of her brothers, a 
pocket knife made in Zenjan. The old \ulfat at home 
was made happy with a pink comb, and the gatekeeper’s 
children shrieked with delight when they tasted their 
grape molasses taffy. 

“How long will Mustapha Khan stay with us?” Salta- 
net asked when, at length, all the presents had been 
distributed. 

“Not more than three days. He must hurry back, 
for the Head of the Department of Finance wants to 
take him to a special court session in the province.” 

Three days! How short they were for a girl to drink 
tea with all her friends and tell them of life in the city, 
of the vast bazaars and high society! How full they 
were for a homesick \ulfat, who now found herself an 
envied figure among the ignorant villagers as they lis¬ 
tened to her embroider tales of the great city! And how 
fraught for the young Khan with events which were to 
disrupt the smooth routine and calm security of his life. 




X 

BURIED TREASURE 


It was on the second day of their stay in Tuhistan that 
the incident occurred which was to have such a far- 
reaching effect upon Mustapha Khan’s career. Upon 
Abdullah’s request the young landlord had gone with 
him to inspect a certain underground watercourse which 
long ago had fallen into disuse through lack of repair. 
The men went down a narrow flight of steps fashioned 
of rocks rudely fitted together, and found themselves in 


112 


Buried Treasure 


111 

a stone-lined channel, which for centuries had carried 
the melting snows to the orchards and wheat fields down 
the mountainside. Whenever a channel became choked 
with dirt or fallen stones, Abdullah assigned the vil¬ 
lagers to a number of days’ labor in repairing them. 
The present inspection trip was to determine the extent 
of repairs needed and the probable cost so that the land¬ 
lord and his \ad\hoda could make proper provision 
when other repairs were made in the autumn. 

Several stones had fallen from a place on the side wall 
of the channel. Mustapha Khan inspected the spot 
closely and poked his fingers around adjoining stones to 
determine how solidly they remained in place. As he 
thrust his hand back into the opening, his fingers 
touched something smooth of irregular shape. He tried 
to extricate it, but the hard-packed soil which had lain 
on it for many years held it fast. 

The young man scraped away the soil to see just what 
the object was and beheld a rounded surface of creamy 
gray glaze with greenish blue leaves and flowers inter¬ 
twined in an intricate pattern. A vase! But how did 
it come to be there? 

Abdullah opened his knife and broke away the hard 
soil bit by bit. Then he carefully lifted out the vase and 
gave it to Mustapha Khan. The extraordinary weight 
of it surprised them. 

“A jab!” he exclaimed. “It must be full of lead bul¬ 
lets, it is so heavy! What can be in it?” Mustapha Khan 



Jasmine 


114 

was increasingly surprised to discover that the top was 
sealed with wax. Faint impressions of a lettered seal were 
still visible. Abdullah moistened his handkerchief and 
cleaned the dirt off the wax surface. Then Mustapha 
Khan studied it intently. 

“Part of it is not clear,” he said at last, “but I can 
make out the date 1258. See? Here and here and here!” 
He pointed eagerly to the faint tracings. “That must 
have been about sixty years ago. Then there is a name, 
but I can make out only part of it . . . SUR KH . . . 
It was a square seal. You can see where the corners 
pressed into the wax. 

“Here! Give me the knife. Let us see what is inside.” 
In several places he tried to insert the blade around the 
top of the vase, but the wax was old and seemed almost 
to have turned to stone. 

Mustapha Khan snapped the knife shut. 

“There!” he said, returning it to Abdullah. “I am 
very grateful to you, but it wouldn’t work. I’ll have to 
try some other method. It is a virtuous little urn, is it 
not?” And he chuckled at the thought. 

“Virtuous?” Abdullah was plainly puzzled. 

“Why, surely you recall the proverb: ‘A wise man is 
like a vase in a druggist’s shop, silent, but full of vir¬ 
tues.’ This vase is decidedly tight-lipped: I cannot even 
pry it open. And it is so heavy it must be full—of vir¬ 
tues, let us say!” 



Buried Treasure 


111 

“Well said, Mustapha Khan! But how do you pro¬ 
pose to discover its virtues?” 

Mustapha Khan smiled and led the way up the stone 
stairs. A little later he and Abdullah were bending 
anxiously over a basin of hot water, in which he held 
the mouth of the vase. The samovar stood on the floor 
beside them and Abdullah occasionally drew more hot 
water from the little spout. 

“Praise the Lord! It is softening!” the young man 
cried excitedly. At the same moment he noticed that 
the dirt had entirely dissolved and now left the wax 
surface clean and clear. What had seemed illegible be¬ 
fore, now was plainly discernible. 

“Mansur Khan, 1258,” it read. 

“Why, that was my grandfather!” Mustapha Khan 
cried in amazement. “And I have the very seal that 
made this impression. I think I must have been his 
favorite, for he used to talk to me by the hour. He it was 
who instilled in my heart a love for poetry through the 
many verses he used to recite to me. When he died, 
they gave me his seal. I was just a lad, but I prized it, 
and it has always been a good memory in my life. 
See!” 

He drew a small leather pouch from his pocket and 
among the coins and trinkets that rolled on the floor 
was a small square seal of lapis. He compared the let¬ 
ters on the wax with those cut intaglio in the blue stone. 
They were identical. 



n6 


Jasmine 


To their amazement, when the wax seal was finally 
lifted off, a stream of golden coins fell out upon the 
floor, one yellow coin rolling unnoticed straight into 
the corner by the door. The two eagerly examined the 
treasure. 

“Gold dollars from the reign of Fath Ali Shah in 
1210!” Abdullah whispered in awe. “He must have 
hidden them in this manner during one of the terrifying 
Lur raids. Men’s property was not safe in those days.” 

“Or, perhaps, he was hiding his tangible wealth from 
the king,” Mustapha Khan mused. “You know how 
it was in those days. If the king paid a visit to a rich 
subject, he expected a large present; and if it was not 
immediately forthcoming, he often seized certain val¬ 
uables outright and then grandly thanked the subject 
for the forced gift. 

“Not only his wealth but his life might be in danger. 
‘To sport an opinion contrary to the judgment of the 
king were to wash our hands in our own blood. Were 
he verily to say this day is night, it would behoove us 
to reply: Lo! there are the moon and the seven stars!’ ” 

“But that was long ago,” Abdullah protested, “and 
now you have a treasure here! Those antique coins will 
fetch more than their face value.” 

“You mean they would fetch more,” the Khan cor¬ 
rected him. “Don’t you know that our Shah says ev¬ 
erything below the surface of the soil belongs to the 
government? That is the reason they watch so closely 



Buried Treasure 


111 

the excavations that are being made by the foreign 
archeologists.” 

With shaking fingers they counted nineteen golden 
coins, which, because of their antiquity, might be worth 
a large sum, and restored them to the vase. Then, hear¬ 
ing footsteps, the Khan hurriedly thrust the treasure 
behind a wall cushion and lazily reclined against it. 

“Abdullah,” he was saying as the servant entered, 
“return to the qariat and see if I dropped my knife on 
the stones. Look carefully, especially where the stones 
are loose.” 

Abdullah bowed to his master and left the room. 

The servant, Rajab, hesitated in the doorway, his 
eyes cast furtively on the floor. 

“Master, I was told to bring the water pipe in half an 
hour,” he explained, as he set it on the floor before the 
landlord. 

“It is well,” the master replied, as he took up the 
pipe tube and leaned back comfortably against the 
nineteen golden coins. “You may take away the samo¬ 
var.” 

The servant picked up the steaming copper vessel and 
carried it from the room, returning a moment later for 
the water bowl. It was then that a rather curious thing 
happened. Instead of going straight out again, the man 
hesitated by the doorway an instant, stooped over and 
made an elaborate gesture as of smoothing out a corner 
of the fringed rug that lay there, his back turned to- 



n8 


Jasmine 


wards his master. Then he straightened himself again 
and departed, bowl in hand. 

When Abdullah at last returned Mustapha Khan 
turned to him eagerly. 

“What did you find? Anything else?” 

“No, nothing else,” the latter replied disappointedly. 
“Only a few old silver coins like those we turn up many 
a time in our plowing. One thin coin of Iskandar Rumi, 
Alexander the Great, such as he used to pay his soldiers; 
and two Sassanian coins of the ruling prince in a very 
tall headdress. That was all.” 

“Keep them,” the landlord told him. Such coins, 
though two thousand years old, were so common in 
Hamadan as to be almost worthless, for they were so 
small and thin as to contain only a negligible quantity 
of silver. 

As for the gold coins, Mustapha Khan decided for 
the time being to keep his own counsel. Abdullah could 
be trusted to say nothing about them. For, although it 
was true that all buried treasure belonged by law to the 
government, this applied to treasure discovered by acci¬ 
dent, as had sometimes occurred in plowing or in dig¬ 
ging the foundations of a house. Such coins might have 
lain in the ground for centuries and it would be impos¬ 
sible to establish their original ownership. 

Here, it seemed to Mustapha Khan, the case was en¬ 
tirely different. The money had been buried by his 
grandfather, sealed with his own seal, and hidden on 



Buried Treasure 


112 

his own land which had descended from father to son 
through generations. His own wide knowledge of the 
law, therefore, assured him that what he had discovered 
was definitely family property and the government could 
have no first claim upon it. 

Nevertheless, it might be necessary to declare it, pure¬ 
ly as a formality, but this he would do at his own con¬ 
venience and in the manner he judged best. He might 
be mistaken, of course, but in any case it was a point 
that would bear considering. In the meantime he de¬ 
cided to keep the coins safely hidden, so as to avoid all 
possible gossip, until he had leisure to approach the 
question of his claim with the proper authorities. 

With this intent he wrapped the coins in a cloth and 
stowed them away in the bottom of his saddlebag with¬ 
out so much as a word even to his wife. 

'Tor if I warn her,” he thought, "she will be sure to 
mention something about it to her mother, and then 
gossip will be started.” 

Little he knew how dear that decision was to cost him. 

A motley throng gathered in Abdullah’s garden the 
following day. The landlord was holding court and 
every villager who had a grievance came to lay it before 
him. Abdullah, who was headman of the village, also 
had his story to tell of villagers who had been unruly, 
who had made trouble with their neighbors, or failed 
to perform their share of the common tasks. 

Mustapha Khan heard each man’s complaint or plea 



120 


Jasmine 


and tried to mete out fair treatment to all. The peasant 
who had failed to do his share of mending the roadway 
was sentenced to give extra time in cleaning the water¬ 
courses. The man who took melons the previous au¬ 
tumn from his neighbor’s roof where they had been 
stored was sentenced to work three days in that neigh¬ 
bor’s melon patch, irrigating or hoeing or doing what¬ 
ever the neighbor should see fit. 

“But leave the melons on the vines,” the landlord 
warned him. 

The miller who wanted to operate his mill on a dif¬ 
ferent basis was heard and had his request granted. The 
charcoal vendor was granted repairs for his shop in the 
bazaar, but his rent was increased. So he went away 
wondering whether he had gained anything, after all. 

Finally, there was a large group of peasants who had 
come to petition for a redistribution of the farm lands. 

“Master, when will it please you to make a new allot¬ 
ment of the fields? It has been many years since the last 
division and conditions have changed for many of us.” 
Thus spoke one of the group. 

And another: “Master, I have two sons coming of 
age. They desire fields also, and land space in the vil¬ 
lage to build their houses. Now that Naghi has sold his 
oxen for donkeys and works on the caravan routes, his 
fields lie idle and he cares not.” 

“And the fields that have been made over to the 
priest,” put in a shepherd whose face had been made 




Finally, there was a large group of peasants 






Buried Treasure 


121 


almost black by sun and wind, “what of them? They 
too lie idle. Or, if we till them, we get only a third of 
the crop. My boy Bahram is old enough now to tend 
the flocks and I could have a barley field or two.” 

The landlord heard their tales and listened to others 
who had had misfortune. All wanted a reapportion¬ 
ment. The hearing was not complete until the \ad\hoda 
had belittled some stories and disapproved of their re¬ 
quests, or corroborated and recommended others. Ab¬ 
dullah was well liked by the villagers who felt that he 
represented their interests fairly, much better in fact 
than the scheming, smooth-tongued \ad\hoda of the 
next village. And Mustapha Khan felt that the head¬ 
man was loyal to him too. So he weighed carefully the 
requests that came up. The problem was complicated 
by rumors he had been hearing. For the parliament in 
Teheran was considering a bill which would make it 
possible for any villager to register a house and yard in 
his own name, provided he had lived in it continuously 
for twenty years. If this bill were passed—and it prob¬ 
ably would be in time, for the Shah approved of it— 
then how long would it be until his villagers learned of 
it and registered their houses in their own names? On 
the whole, it might be best to order a new apportion¬ 
ment after the crops had been harvested, and keep the 
peasants contented. 

The last villager went away, grumbling or happy ac¬ 
cording to his award, and Mustapha Khan and Abdullah 



122 


Jasmine 


relaxed as they waited for tea. It was brought by Rajab, 
the same servant who had acted so strangely in remov¬ 
ing the samovar the day before when Mustapha had 
discovered the vase. 

Noiselessly he entered in stocking feet, set down the 
samovar, and brought in a tray with tiny glasses and 
a bowl of lump sugar and two tall glasses of quince 
sherbat in which chipped ice tinkled and gleamed. 

“A present from my brother,” Rajab explained as he 
noticed their surprised glances. “He carries ice to the 
Hamadanis and once in a great while he comes on over 
the mountain. It is a long journey that he makes every 
day; so he stayed only a short time.” 

“Tell your brother we are very grateful,” the men 
acknowledged the gift of ice. “May his shadow never 
grow less! ” 

The iced drink was refreshing and found favor with 
Mustapha Khan, who sipped the sherbat slowly, 
thoughtfully, as if he were mentally reviewing the tasks 
he had planned for this visit. 

“I shall return in the month of Saffar to collect my 
crop shares and the rest of the rents,” he informed the 
\adhJioda when they were once more alone. “Have the 
rents ready from the do\ans f the shops, and the taxes 
for sheep and oxen and donkeys, and the proceeds from 
the timber rights. The government at Teheran is rais¬ 
ing my taxes; so I must increase the returns from the 
village. If there are any other matters to settle, let me 



Buried Treasure 


123 


hear them now, for I want to leave early in the morn¬ 
ing.” 

“There are none,” Abdullah replied. 

“It is well. And remember that you know nothing of 
the vase which I found. You know nothing and you 
have seen nothing.” 










XI 

GANJ NAMEH—TREASURE WRITING 

Happy as had been that visit to Tuhistan, to Farrukh, 
upon her return home its memory was only the har¬ 
binger of greater happiness yet to come. Little by little 
now her first glad hope—too good, it seemed, to be true 
—had grown to certainty. Whether or no the wise Stone 
Lion had anything to do with it, her dearest wish was 
to be granted, her cup of happiness would be full. 

Not long after she and Mustapha Khan were once 


124 














































Ganj Nameh — Treasure^ Writing 


12 5 


more settled in their own house, Farrukh confided to 
her husband the secret which now filled all her thoughts. 

“It will be a man-child, of course,” Mustapha Khan 
commented, vastly pleased. 

“Insh’allah, if God wills, it will be a man-child,” his 
wife agreed. 

“And we will make a picnic of rejoicing on Friday 
when I do not go to the office to work!” her husband 
continued. “We can take some books and read. Shall 
we go to Ganj Nameh P” 

“As you wish. You know that I have never visited 
the places on this side of the mountain.” 

“But surely you have heard of the wonders of Ganj 
Nameh! No? Then that is where we shall go.” 

The secluded glen known as Ganj Nameh, or the 
Treasure Writing, of which Mustapha Khan spoke, lies 
high above Hamadan in the foothills of the Elvend 
range. A rocky trail—it can scarcely be called a road— 
struggles upward through the delightful summer gar¬ 
dens of the khans, beyond the blooming orchards that 
fill the ravine, up and up to the region that shows no 
trace of the gardener, of carefully laid irrigation 
trenches, or affectionately tended rows of poplar trees; 
far beyond all cultivation to the wild, unkempt slopes 
of the majestic Elvend. Between two great peaks is a 
rugged valley through which a seasonal brook leaps over 
rocky cliffs into foaming cataracts, spreads itself out on 



126 


Jasmine 


a wide, pebbly bed, or frets its way around gigantic 
boulders that all but halt its progress. 

A narrow, sandy donkey path follows the stream 
along its lonely course. Here one seldom sees the shep¬ 
herd with his little flock, or even a lone peasant in search 
of grass for his donkeys. Everywhere are piles of stones 
collected by previous travelers for some later wanderer 
who might be so unfortunate as to meet the Devil in 
this lonely spot. 

But what is today a little-frequented donkey path was 
once a great highway, over which twenty-five centuries 
ago Darius the Great transported his armies through the 
rocky mountain pass, and by which traveled the royal 
messengers bearing orders to the satraps in all the prov¬ 
inces from Ethiopia to India. Through the centuries the 
pass was used less and less until the road disappeared 
altogether, an earthquake finally filling the narrowest 
part of the defile with gigantic boulders from the slopes 
above, until today only a footpath remains to guide the 
curious traveler. 

Up this narrow track, on the following Friday, Far- 
rukh and her husband toiled, with Farrukh’s sure-footed 
little donkey bearing the saddlebags packed with bread 
and cheese and dates, with charcoal and a small samo¬ 
var and with books. A small coarse rug was folded on 
top of the saddlebags. 

Soon, the rug was spread on the ground, a tiny char¬ 
coal fire made in the samovar, the teapot steaming and 



Ganj Nameh—Treasure Writing 


127 


the cheese and dates laid ready in a pile on top of the 
sheet of thin, brown bread. 

“Go ahead, Mustapha,” Farrukh announced, as she 
sat down on the rug. “When I dipped water for the 
samovar from the spring that comes up by the big rock 
yonder, I found some watercress. Put it with your bread 
and cheese.” 

The exertion of the climb had made them hungry 
and they ate for several minutes in silence. Then Mus¬ 
tapha Khan glanced at his book, which lay open on the 
rug, and spoke. 

“It must have been such as this when the poet wrote 
his verses. You know something of Hafiz and Sa’adi 
and Firdusi. We have another poet, Omar Khayyam, 
one of the lesser poets, who is known chiefly as a mathe¬ 
matician and philosopher. 

“The verse of his that came to my mind is something 
like this: 

4 Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, 

A Flas\ of Wine, a Boo\ of Verse—and Thou 
Beside me singing in the Wilderness — 

And Wilderness is Paradise enow / ” 

Mustapha Khan read on, verse after verse, now re¬ 
citing “the Potter thumping his wet Clay,” and now 
“so red the rose as where some dying Caesar bled”; here 
the pleasures in Wine, and there a questioning about 
the Hereafter. 



128 


Jasmine 


“While you read of wine, your tea cools and grows 
bitter,” Farrukh remarked practically. “It seems to me 
this man Omar is a heretic. He lauds the Grape; the 
Koran forbids us to drink that which intoxicates. He 
jests about Death, saying it is nothing more than a return 
of our bodies to the dust; and the Prophet has assured 
us that if we pray and fast and give alms, and if we are 
true Believers, we shall attain Paradise.” 

“So it would seem on first reading,” Mustapha Khan 
conceded, “but I believe he writes in symbols. His words 
have a deeper meaning than that which strikes the ear. 
Perhaps that is because he was first of all a great phil¬ 
osopher.” 

“While you were reading,” Farrukh confessed, “I 
noticed that rock which towers above us across the 
brook has a flat panel cut into it. Do you see? It looks 
like writing. What is it?” 

“That is Ganj Nameh. This little glen receives its 
name from that rock carving. Shall we cross the brook 
and climb up there and have a look at it?” 

Only by scrambling onto a huge boulder could they 
pull themselves up to the ledge made by the sunken 
panel. Small round holes dotted the surface of the rocky 
wall, presumably made for pegs to support the scaffold¬ 
ing while the sculptor chiseled his writing into the rock. 

“What strange writing! It is not the kind the mirza 
taught me. That had flowing curves and this has short, 
sharp lines—like chicken tracks,” Farrukh remarked 



Gan) Nameh—Treasure Writing 


I2Q 


laughingly and ran her finger lightly over the curious 
characters. “It is cut so deep, so sharp and clear, this 
writing must have been done only a few years ago.” 

“Twenty-five hundred years would be a better guess,” 
Mustapha Khan told her. “This writing was done by 
order of the Great King, Darius. You see, there are 
three panels of writing, in three very ancient languages, 
but they were all written with the same characters, which 
are called cuneiform. This is really a proclamation 
glorifying the old god Ahuramazda and announcing 
that Darius was the King of Kings. It was carved on 
this rock because this place used to be a great highway, 
and the many men who passed by would read it. 

“Then you see another rock nearby. It has a panel 
like this one. The writing is almost the same, too. King 
Xerxes thought he would make a proclamation like that 
of his father, Darius. So he had the other copied and 
substituted his own name each time. 

“When I was a schoolboy, the headmaster of the for¬ 
eign school brought us here for a picnic. He was a very 
learned man, and was familiar with cuneiform writing. 
He showed us the marks that were the symbols for 
Darius. We boys made a tiny mark beside the first 
character so we would remember. See! Here it is I This 
is the way they wrote Darius: 

7f r? ST ^ 

Darius 



I3Q 


Jasmine 


or, as it was pronounced by his contemporaries, 
Darayavaush. 

“That great boulder which juts out so close to the 
stream also has a panel prepared on it for writing. But 
nothing has ever been inscribed on it. There is a great 
crevice through the center and half the rock has dropped 
down a finger’s length, caused by an earthquake, prob¬ 
ably, so that the work was never finished.” 

“But, Mustapha, why is this place called Ganj Na- 
meh? If it only proclaims the glories of the Great King 
Darius, why do people speak of it as the Treasure 
Writing?” 

“Jasmine! Jasmine! Such questions as you ask! A 
scholar without diligence is a lover without money. You 
should be a man and use that fine mind of yours for 
something worth while. 

“I will tell you why it is called Ganj Nameh. After 
a time those ancient languages of Susian, Babylonian, 
and Old Persian died out and finally no one could read 
this inscription. For a long, long time people thought 
it gave directions for locating great buried treasure, if 
anyone could but decipher it. And then a few years ago 
a foreigner studied it out and discovered that it was but 
a proclamation of Darius reciting the extent of his em¬ 
pire and the list of his high-sounding titles. 

“Here!” he said, pulling a book from the saddlebag, 
for they had recrossed the stream by this time. “I will 
read a translation of the characters on the rock panel: 



Ganj Natneh—Treasure Writing 


il£ 

‘A great god is Ahuramazda, who created this 
earth, who created yonder heaven, who created 
man, who made peace for man, who made Darius 
\ing, the one \ing of many, the one ruler of many . 

I am Darius, the Great King, the King of Kings, 
King of the countries which have many peoples, 
King of the great earth even to afar, the son of 
Hystaspes, the Achaemenian! 

“Three hours until sunset/’ Mustapha Khan estimated 
a little later, as he glanced toward the sun. “We must 
start down the mountain. Pack the saddlebags quickly 
while I fetch the donkey.” 

The return journey was slow and Farrukh became 
very tired. When they finally reached Saidabad, where 
the trail widened into a real road and a tea house catered 
to picnickers, Mustapha Khan spied a droshky. Leaving 
the donkey to be driven home by a boy, they climbed 
into the carriage and relaxed against the cushioned seat 
as they jogged along toward the city. 

In the Street of The Mulberry Trees, he paid off the 
driver and knocked on his own great gate. Mahmud 
opened it quickly, furtively. 

A police officer stepped out of the gatehouse. 
“Mustapha Khan Azadai?” he asked. 

“I am your slave,” the Khan replied, wondering if the 
Chief of Finance had sent the man on an errand for him. 
“I have orders for your arrest.” 



131 


Jasmine 


“For my arrest? What do you mean? On what 
charges?” 

“I do not know. You will come with me at once to 
the Chief of Police.” 

Farrukh clutched her husband frantically. 

“What are they going to do to you? Mustapha, tell 
me what has happened. What have you done?” She 
began to cry hysterically. 

“Make not a fool of yourself,” her husband shook her 
off roughly. “There is a mistake somewhere. I have 
done nothing. I have nothing to fear. Washermen beat 
only dirty clothes against a stone. Go to your room and 
be quiet. I will return presently.” He went into the 
street, followed by the police officer. 

But he did not return. Farrukh waited anxiously un¬ 
til long after the mullah had called the Faithful to their 
sunset prayers. She sat on the floor, not troubling to 
unroll the mattress, and listening to every footfall on the 
cobblestones in the street. She heard a mullah singing 
the midnight prayer, and a farmer boisterously warbling 
a folk song as he stumbled away from the city from a 
too long visit to a public tea house. And still Mustapha 
Khan did not return. 

Alone, with fear clutching at her heart, Farrukh 
passed those hours of darkness. It seemed as though 
morning would never come. She was tormented by 
thoughts of her husband being tortured in jail, of per¬ 
haps being hurried to another city altogether, thrust into 



Gan} Nameh — Treasure^ Writing 


133 


some dungeon where he might linger for months, and 
she would have no news of him. All a simple country 
girl’s horror of the law and its dread despotic powers 
rushed back to her, overwhelming what common sense 
and knowledge she had gained in the months since her 
marriage. What could have brought this catastrophe 
about? Was it due to some plot, some hidden jealousy? 

Slowly the dawn grew, a pale daylight crept through 
the windows, and the mullah was again singing the call 
to prayer. As Farrukh’s first terrors calmed she was able 
to think more clearly. Little by little past events began 
for the first time to link themselves together in her 
mind. Farrukh was no fool; things like this did not 
happen without some cause, and once that little glimmer 
of a possible explanation occurred to her, her brain be¬ 
gan to work feverishly, piecing together the whole story. 

Abbas, the father of her little weaver, stealthily hang¬ 
ing about for the child’s wages, furtive and mysterious 
about his own affairs, as she knew from Mahmud, and 
frequently smelling of opium; Abbas and the Colonel 
riding together in the droshky; Abbas—she was almost 
sure—among those men she discovered on the Musallah 
hill; the warning letter delivered to her, and Mustapha 
Khan’s remarks about opium smuggling as they rode 
past the poppy fields on their way to Tuhistan. 

“They have indeed trumped up false charges to get 
him out of the way,” she sobbed to herself. They think 
I have told him what I saw, and that he will work 



£34 


Jasmine 


through the office of the Tax Collector to break up the 
ring and catch them. Mustapha said they had a smug¬ 
gler in his office the other day, but they could not pro¬ 
duce enough evidence against him. It is all my fault! 
It is my fault that he is in trouble. If only I had stayed 
on the road and not wandered off to explore those ruins. 
But how can I tell Mustapha? If I tell him what I know, 
how I came to discover it, he will say that no good 
woman would wander alone on the hillside. And then 
he will divorce me. Dirt on my head! Oh, the grief 
that I eat! ” She rocked on her heels, beating her breast. 

Her thoughts raced on. Yes, it was through her that 
this trouble had fallen upon Mustapha Khan. He was 
in danger on her account. She would go to the jail and 
tell him everything. He must know who his possible 
enemies were, even if it meant divorce and disgrace. 

She bathed her swollen face in the cool water of the 
garden pool and was thankful for the black veil that hid 
her reddened eyes and distorted face as she hurried 
through the streets. 

The police officer looked up in surprise as a woman 
entered the room. 

“If it is not too much trouble, may I speak to Mus¬ 
tapha Khan?” she spoke timidly behind the veil. 

“That cannot be. Mustapha Khan is a prisoner. I 
have orders to let him speak to no one,” the man replied. 

A coin flashed in her hand. 

“But I will see what can be done,” he finished. 



DONKEY HARNESS 


Mustapha Khan listened at first indifferently, then in 
amazement to his wife’s confession. As she told her 
story, the events seemed to be logically related and he 
almost believed her conclusion himself. 

“It may be that you are on the trail of that which we 
ourselves could not solve,” he admitted reluctantly. 
“Still, that is not the reason for my arrest. 

“While I was in the village, I dug up a vase full of 




136 


Jasmine 


old gold coins that had been buried in the qariat. No 
one else knew of it except your father, and I command¬ 
ed him to speak of it to no man, for I knew it would 
mean trouble if the news got out. But the police depart¬ 
ment has heard of it. And here I am, the sacrifice.” 

“How did they find out?” 

“Your father knew.” 

“My father is discreet; he would not disclose that 
which he knew should remain secret.” 

“Nevertheless, he is the only one who knew.” Mus- 
tapha Khan could not prevent a touch of bitterness 
creeping into his voice. “If he has been indiscreet, I 
shall remove him from the village and he can go out and 
tend sheep.” 

“My father did not speak! I think someone else 
must have shared your secret, and that person has a 
grudge against you,” Farrukh maintained stoutly. “I 
don’t want my father to be discharged. I shall discover 
who told the secret. But why do they imprison you 
because you dug up an old vase in your qariat?” 

“It is the law that everything beneath the surface of 
the soil belongs to the government. And I did not 
immediately report my find. Yesterday, while we were 
at Ganj Nameh, they searched the house and garden 
and found the vase deep down in the rice jar where I 
thought it would be safe.” 

Farrukh was dumbfounded to think that a precious 
treasure had been hidden in her rice jar without her 



Donkey Harness 


i37 


knowledge. If only she had shared the secret, how much 
better she would have hidden that vase! 

“Now that they have the vase, why do they not let 
you go?” 

“Yes, why don’t they? They say the vase held thirty 
pieces of gold, instead of nineteen, and I must produce 
eleven more coins before I am freed. But where can I 
find eleven gold coins? We do not use gold money 
today. The vase contained only nineteen and I am un¬ 
able to convince them it contained no more.” 

“Do the nineteen coins fill the vase? Surely that 
would be proof of your truthfulness!” 

“No! Strangely enough, the vase had space for a few 
more coins, and that is their chance to squeeze money 
from me. I cannot give them gold coins like those in 
the vase. The only thing I can do is to give them the 
equivalent in silver. That would be about one hundred 
and fifty tomans ” 

“One hundred and fifty tomans! But that is a for¬ 
tune! How can you ever get so much?” 

“From the rents I collected in the village, there are a 
hundred tomans. For the other fifty ... I don’t know. 
Perhaps the Tax Collector will advance.that much on 
my salary until I can collect the rest of the rents in the 
harvest season. 

“Farrukh, do you wrap your veil very closely about 
you and go to him. Tell him my trouble and ask him 



ili 


Jasmine 


if he will help me, if he will come here. Surely his great 
authority can do much.” 

When Farrukh appeared before him in his office, the 
Tax Collector listened attentively to her story. Far¬ 
rukh also told him her belief that someone had 
brought about the arrest in order to place Mustapha 
Khan in a bad light with the government, someone who 
had reason to fear him. And she related the incidents 
which had led up to her receipt of the threatening letter. 

“Where is the letter now?” the man asked sharply. 

Farrukh laid the letter before him. “I brought it with 
me. I thought Mustapha Khan might need it, but he 
seemed to think it was unimportant.” 

“I will keep it,” the official announced, after exam¬ 
ining it closely. “It may help to clear up a case we have 
been working on. If you receive any more such letters, 
give them to the Khan and tell him to bring them to me. 
Oh, yes! Now I’ll go to the jail and see what I can 
do for the young man.” 

One weight had been lifted from her heart, only to 
be replaced by another. The official could procure Mus- 
tapha’s release. But what of her father? Had he dis¬ 
closed the secret? If he had, she felt sure her husband 
would fulfill his threat and remove Abdullah from his 
position of authority in the village. And what could 
she, a woman, do to defend her father? 

“You should be a man and use that fine mind of 
yours for something worth while,” her husband had 



Donkey Harness 


139 


remarked at Ganj Nameh. Had he been joking, or was 
he in earnest? 

Oh, if she were only a man now, that she might go 
about freely and try to solve this mystery! Mustapha 
Khan had been displeased, as she knew he would be, and 
had reprimanded her for wandering on the Musallah hill 
alone. So she must now lay all her plans carefully and 
work more circumspectly. 

First of all, she must discover who told the news 
about the vase, in order to clear her father. Then she 
must try to learn more about this group of men who 
had sent her the warning. If she could gain specific 
information, Mustapha Khan might clear up that case 
and receive credit for it, which would restore him to 
favor with the government. Yes, this was her task and 
she must not fail. 

Seeking relief from the afternoon heat, Farrukh had 
taken her needlework to the Room of The Cascades and 
was sitting cross-legged on a carpeted bench watching 
the water splash over the rocks. Then it dimpled in 
the cool, dark pool and flowed out in a narrow, rock- 
rimmed channel to the garden, where Mahmud was 
busily directing its course from one level to another. 
Three days a week they rented an hour of irrigation 
water, and Mahmud was kept busy opening and closing 
the miniature dikes as each little plot overflowed with 
the precious water. 

A sharp knock on the street gate shattered the lazy 



140 


Jasmine 


afternoon quiet. Mahmud flung open the gate and in 
trotted the ice carrier’s donkey resplendent in a new set 
of handwoven carpet harness. 

“ Mashallah!” exclaimed the gatekeeper. “How is it 
that your beast wears bright new harness when I must 
wear my black shirt? Is it not Muharram, the Month 
of Mourning?” 

“Muharram it is,” replied the ice carrier. “But it is 
not all mourning. My brother in the village had a little 
luck. He asked me to change a gold coin in the city 
and then he gave me part of it as a present. So the 
donkey got the harness and I got a new pipe. Should 
we mourn for that?” 

More chaffing followed. But Farrukh, unnoticed in 
the Room of The Cascades, had heard enough. His 
brother in the village.had had a gold coin! He had 
been afraid to change it in the village and had sent it 
away. 

When the gate closed on the man and his beast, Far¬ 
rukh called to the gatekeeper. 

“Next time that man comes here, ask him where he 
bought the harness. I want a set just like it for my own 
donkey. Do not tell him your mistress wants to know. 
Merely ask who the harness maker was who did such 
excellent work.” 

Mustapha Khan came home that evening irritable and 
uncommunicative. How the release had been arranged 
he would not say, but it was plain that he blamed her 



Donkey Harness 


141 

family for the trouble, with more than a little angry 
resentment for her. 

Anxiety racked her mind and body for a night and 
day. Rebellion rose within her each time she thought 
of her husband’s lack of faith in her father, while terror 
clutched her heart as she feared for Abdullah. Then 
Mahmud came to her with information. The harness 
maker was one Mushi, who had his shop in the leather- 
workers’ bazaar. He had come from Tuhistan in his 
youth and had been a close friend of the ice carrier ever 
since their boyhood days in the village. 

Timidly Farrukh approached her husband on the 
dangerous subject. 

“My lord, I have news for you. I know where you 
might find a gold coin in the bazaar.” 

In spite of his resentment toward his wife and his 
bitterness for her family, he could not but recognize and 
admire the persevering, searching, truth-hungry quality 
of her mind. 

It was nearly sunset. The bazaar would be closing 
soon, but he could go down early in the morning. He 
debated. To hold counsel with women was bad. Should 
he listen to his wife and eat more trouble, or ignore the 
clue and struggle along trying to straighten out his 
difficulties alone? The ice carrier’s brother was Ab¬ 
dullah’s servant in the village. Surely such evidence 
could not be ignored even though coming from a 
woman. He took the chance. 



142 


Jasmine 


Camel trappings, leather fringes for horse and mule, 
bells and harness and saddles dangled in confusion from 
the walls of the stall of old Mushi in the covered bazaar. 
Mushi sat cross-legged on the floor, threading bright blue 
beads onto the ends of narrow leather thongs for har¬ 
ness fringe. On each side of the dim, vaulted alley were 
other harness makers industriously improving their stock 
or lazily watching for customers. 

Mustapha Khan sauntered along the way, looking at 
the wares of all the leather shops along the street. At 
old Mushi’s he paused. 

“What kind of harness have you for a traveler’s don¬ 
key?” 

Mushi reached here and there, laid down before the 
man a set of shiny leather harness brass-studded, a set 
of carpet strips cleverly fashioned into harness, and then 
hopefully exhibited a pair of saddlebags, a quantity of 
blue clay beads, little brass bells, and an assortment of 
iron goads—all the accessories for a well-equipped 
donkey. 

The customer cast an indifferent glance at the carpet 
harness, but showed interest in the brass-studded set. 

“Now, this set,” he pointed to the leather, “is much 
better made than that. Woven harness is not in great 
demand today, is it?” 

“Your pardon, master, but it is very well made. And 
I have already sold three sets of carpet harness since the 
day of Jumeh.” 



































Donkey Harness 


145 


“Three sets! I cannot imagine who would buy them.” 

“One I sold to a mullah, one to a foreigner, and one 
to an ice carrier.” 

“And how many tomans do you ask for a set like 
this? How could an ice carrier pay for it?” 

“Only three tomans, master. That ice carrier even 
gave me a gold coin in payment.” 

“Marvelous! He must be a prince in disguise. I 
should like to see a gold coin once. I am certainly not 
rich enough to carry gold.” 

“Indeed, master, I should be pleased to show it you, 
for it was a curious coin. The face was not that of our 
present Shah. But I no longer have it. My son was 
called for military service only a few days ago. I went 
to the Committee of Enrollment to try to secure his 
leave of absence for a year. My children are many, and 
I need the boy Safar Ali to help me in the shop until 
the next boy Rajab is old enough to take his place. I 
cannot feed so many mouths alone. 

“So I went to the Committee. Bah l bah l It would 
seem that every man in Hamadan wanted to see the 
colonel that day. The room was crowded and I might 
have cooled my heels there until sunset. But I spoke 
privately to a clerk and made him a present of the coin. 
Very soon afterward I made my petition to the colonel 
and he granted my boy leave of absence for a year. So 
it was well worth expending the coin. 

“Now, master, which set would you like? You are 



146 


Jasmine 


my first customer this morning and, if I sell to you, it 
will bring me luck. Say your price.” 

The customer, however, could not make up his mind. 
The brass was too heavy; the fabric, too light. The 
goads were not sharp enough, and the bells were too 
large. 

A look of suspicion clouded old Mushi’s face. His 
eyes narrowed and he spoke sharply. 

“Agha, what do you want? You came not to Buy. 
What have I done that spies should be set upon me? 
First the colonel himself from the Committee of En¬ 
rollment comes to my shop and pretends to look at har¬ 
ness while he engages me in many words. And now 
you do the same. It is true that my family is large, that 
I need my eldest son in the shop. I did not picture my 
condition falsely. So what is your mission?” 

Before the man could make reply, an uproar filled 
the narrow alley. 

“Thief! Thief! Catch him! Seize him!” 

Two policemen darted through the gathering throng, 
shouting, “Down that turning! Quick, before we lose 
sight of him!” And a ragged beggar fled in terror be¬ 
fore the pursuing officers. In the confusion, Mustapha 
Khan melted into the crowd and soon disappeared. 

“So!” he mused. “By some,strange fate, the colonel 
himself saw that coin and recognized it as a rare speci¬ 
men. Learning from that garrulous fool in the bazaar 
that it came from Tuhistan, he must have set his spies 



Donkey Harness 


147 

to work. If Abdullah has been gossiping, it would be 
easy enough to put two and two together. But why 
should he have a grudge against me?” 

For it was clear that this alone could have been the 
motive behind it all. Mustapha Khan remembered what 
Farrukh had said about seeing the colonel and Abbas 
together that day in the bazaar. So Abbas was mixed 
up in this too. Queer company for the colonel to be 
keeping! Yes, there was more behind this than met the 
eye; undoubtedly the colonel was responsible for his 
arrest, for only an official as powerful as he could have 
demanded a secret search of anyone’s property during 
his absence. 

“I thought you would find that the colonel was 
involved in this,” the Head of Finance said without sur¬ 
prise, when he heard the story of the harness maker. 
“That warning note the \hanoum received was written 
on paper which bore a special watermark. It looked as 
if it had been torn hurriedly from the bottom of a paper 
that had been carried in a pocket. The watermark you 
too would have seen and recognized, if you had but ex¬ 
amined it. You have eyes only for your law books, Mus¬ 
tapha Khan. If you are to be of any great value to me 
in this office, especially in the collection of internal reve¬ 
nue, you will have to develop your faculty of observa¬ 
tion. A traveler without knowledge is a bird without 
wings. What then is a seeker after clues, if he be with¬ 
out eyes?” 



148 


Jasmine 


Mustapha Khan accepted the rebuke silently. “But 
there is still another thing which puzzles me,” he 
frowned. “Where did the ice carrier or his brother in 
Tuhistan pick up the coin? Can it be that the \ad\hoda 
found some loose coins when he went back to the qan’at, 
and never informed me?” And Mustapha Khan was 
more determined than ever to remove Abdullah when 
he returned to collect harvest rents in midsummer. 




XIII 

THE PEDDLER’S VISIT 


During these days, the thought of Mustapha Khan’s 
suspicion against her father hung over Farrukh’s mind 
like a dark cloud. Though she was sure in her heart 
that Abdullah had not been guilty of indiscretion—for 
it was not in his character—it was only too apparently 
quite another matter to persuade her husband of his 
innocence. 

She was no longer concerned over her husband’s at¬ 
titude as regarded herself. For ever since the Head of 


149 





Jasmine 


150 

Finance had complimented her intelligence in recogniz¬ 
ing the importance of the note as a clue, Mustapha had 
shown no further resentment toward her. Nor did he 
by word of mouth reveal his bitterness toward her father. 
But she felt this family trouble as an unseen barrier 
between them, as family troubles are apt to be. Nor did 
it better matters that Mustapha’s mother, Mas’udeh 
Khanoum, had taken to visiting their house more often, 
of late. Farrukh had always felt in awe of her mother- 
in-law, and just now she dreaded her constant criticism 
and her sharp tongue more than ever. 

Such was the state of affairs when the time of Muhar- 
ram arrived, the yearly celebration when the Persian 
people commemorate, with prayer and public mourning, 
the tragic betrayal and death of their leader Hossein, 
grandson of the Prophet and son of Ali. A passion play 
had been presented in the city; Farrukh and her mother- 
in-law had attended a series of the performances in a 
neighboring garden, and it was on their return to the 
house one afternoon that Mas’udeh Khanoum took it 
into her head to inspect Farrukh’s rugmaking. It was 
past sunset and the weavers had departed. On the verti¬ 
cal wooden looms were the rugs, now nearly finished, 
their vivid hues mellowed in the failing light and the 
flowers and leaves of the design smoldering like gems 
in a background of midnight blue. 

Mas’udeh Khanoum peered at the back of a rug and 
along its side, estimated the knots per square inch, stud- 



The Peddler 9 s Visit 


151 

ied the pattern pinned to the loom, looked for mistakes 
in the weaving, broke off a bit of wool that dangled 
from a ball suspended above the loom, and calculated 
with sensitive fingers the quality of the wool. 

“The border across the top runs crooked,” she re¬ 
marked briefly. “You will have to pound the knots 
closer together to keep your lines straight. And there 
is a two-tone streak near the bottom. Did you not dye 
the wool before you began?” 

“All,” Farrukh declared. “But that flaw came about 
in the month of Ramazon. The master weaver explained 
to me. Little Osra was so sleepy she made a finger’s 
length of knots in the wrong color and then went on 
beyond that part before they discovered the mistake. 

“The master weaver wished to leave the row as it 
was. With at least one flaw, the rug would fall short of 
perfection and thus ward off the Evil Eye.” Farrukh 
waited hopefully for a word of praise, of commendation 
for the excellent dyeing of the wool, for the tightly 
formed knots, for the straight sides, for the choice of 
design and color arrangement. 

“Humph!” Mas’udeh concluded. “It has enough 
flaws to ward off seven Evil Eyes.” 

“Her own family is faultless,” Farrukh thought re¬ 
sentfully. “I am nothing but a daughter by marriage. I 
should not have expected to please her. She doubted 
my ability when I first set up the looms. What shall I 
do when she comes to spend the summer with us in the 



ill 


Jasmine 


hills? Then I shall be nothing but a servant, and she 
the mistress.” 

In the next few weeks the weavers finished the bor¬ 
ders, clipped the warp threads, and fastened the fringe. 
The knots were counted and the workers paid off and 
sent home. The master weavers remained a day longer 
to spread the rugs on the ground outdoors and scrape 
the surface with a sharp iron instrument which removed 
the corduroy ridges and left the nap velvety smooth. 

At length, Mahmud carried the rugs to the house 
and ceremoniously spread them in the receiving room. 
“Mobara\ bashad! May they be blessed!” he wished 
the proud possessor of the two new rugs. 

Mustapha Khan eyed the work critically, secretly 
pleased by his wife’s industry and expert supervision. 

“How much do you think they will fetch in the 
bazaar? Enough to pay for the wool?” 

“The fish-and-diamond dozari should bring twenty 
and five tomans, and I think the other should bring 
forty. It is more finely woven and the border is not 
crooked at the end, as is the fish-and-diamond.” With 
much labor, Farrukh had kept account of the cost of 
wool and the wages paid her weavers so that she now 
knew exactly what her expense had been. 

“Sixty and five tomans!” Mustapha Khan exclaimed. 
“That will be more than enough to reimburse the Head 
of Finance for his loan to me. I will arrange for their 
selling in the bazaar tomorrow.” 



The Peddler’s Visit 


153 

So that was how Mustapha’s release had been accom¬ 
plished ! Farrukh’s mind quickly seized upon the reve¬ 
lation; and as quickly, then, she succumbed to despair 
at her husband’s decision. 

“And will I not receive any of the money to buy more 
wool in the autumn?” Overwhelming disappointment 
choked the words in her throat. 

“I shall take what I need,” her husband replied. 

Faced with a solution, through his wife’s industry, of 
his own financial difficulties, Mustapha gave no slight¬ 
est thought to the Western ideas regarding women which 
he so admired. Farrukh had not been required to estab¬ 
lish the weaving room; it had been her pleasure to su¬ 
pervise the work. Truly, she had reason to expect a 
small share in the profit. But she was only a woman; 
her disappointment should not matter. The money was 
his to use as he chose. 

Furthermore, was it not her own father who had 
brought all this trouble upon him? He would not 
have had a fine to pay had Abdullah been discreet. So 
it was only fair that he should take the profit from his 
wife’s work. Thus the man reasoned, in customary Per¬ 
sian fashion. 

The summer days became long and hot. The poppies 
grew tall and flowered into blooms of white and rose 
and mauve. Then the petals began to fall in white 
showers and guards appeared in the fields to watch the 
precious crop as the seed pods swelled with milky fluid. 



154 


Jasmine 


There came a day when the opium workers went into 
the gray-green fields with sharp, three-blade instruments 
and with dexterous strokes slit the pods until the milky 
liquid oozed out. 

Next morning when the fluid had thickened to a wax, 
they carefully scraped it off and made another set of 
slits in the pods. Each day the wax, which was now 
opium, was removed and the pods slit until nine or 
twelve scars appeared on the pods. Some few chose to 
make the greater number, believing it to be an auspi¬ 
cious number inasmuch as they recognized twelve 
Imams, successors to the Prophet, in their religion. 

When all the wax had been extracted, the seeds were 
removed and pressed into dough for little cakes or fed 
to fretful babies. Then the plants were pulled up by the 
roots, dried and used for fuel. Thus, only the petals 
were actually wasted and even they in full bloom— 
sinister though their beauty was—charmed the traveler 
along a hot, dusty road. 

Farrukh grew restive in the midday heat and longed 
to move up to the hills, even though Mas’udeh Khanoum 
was to accompany them and would, therefore, rule the 
household. 

“How many more days will it be,” she complained to 
her husband, “until we shall see the green leaves of the 
fruit trees in the Darreh and hear the rushing of the 
little streams? The heat in this city is like that of Ge¬ 
henna. Only the nights are sufferable, and then only 



The Peddler’s Visit 


£55 


if we make our bed on the roof. And I can scarcely ply 
the needle as I hem garments for the baby. Do let us 
go soon.” 

“A few more days,” her husband would respond. 
“You know this is a busy time for us. The Bureau of 
Internal Revenue does most of its business at this sea¬ 
son of the year. When the opium has been harvested and 
made up into cylindrical packages, it must be brought 
to our office, weighed and stamped and sealed with offi¬ 
cial paper and properly recorded. We buy all the opium 
crop and then resell it in the bazaar. It cannot be 
bought and sold even in one single transaction until it 
bears the government mark. That is the reason we must 
work early and late while the crop is being harvested, 
and that is the reason I cannot take even a day to move 
the household up to the hills.” 

Farrukh remembered the early morning ride along 
the poppy fields as they had ridden to Tuhistan. 

“But you say that some men do not register their 
opium, but sell it secretly to agents who smuggle it out 
of the country?” she pondered. “How easy it would be 
to carry a donkey-load of it across the mountain on some 
charvadar trail that none but a shepherd knew or could 
follow! Your agents would have great trouble catching 
such a smuggler.” 

Farrukh held hard feeling toward the smugglers of 
taria\, not so much for their evasion of the law as be¬ 
cause their activities made it necessary for her husband 



Jasmine 


156 

to work long days in the office when she wanted to go to 
the hills. Only the Room of The Cascades was cool and 
there she spent much of her time. 

A peddler slipped inside the garden one day when 
the gate had been left ajar. Annoyed at first by the in¬ 
trusion, Farrukh quickly pulled the veil across her face 
and called out sharply to the stranger. Then, seeing the 
bundle he carried over his shoulder, she asked curiously, 
“What do you want?” The peddler might provide di¬ 
version for an otherwise monotonous afternoon. 

“Many beautiful things I have, lady. Let me open 
my bundle.” He knelt before her on the cobblestones, 
untieing knots in the kerchief and spreading his trinkets 
at her feet. 

Farrukh gave an involuntary cry of delight at sight 
of the lovely objects, a most unwise thing to do if one 
really were interested in making a purchase. 

“Lady, look at this embroidery. See the delicate col¬ 
ors. The flash of brightness is gold thread. It is very 
old, an antique. And this one—the flowers are all of 
silver thread. Feel the weight of the cloth. Such em¬ 
broidery is not made today. I go among all the villages 
on the plain and in these hills and find the best that 
people have to offer.” 

Farrukh fingered a beaded bag, a flat black stone on 
which was graven a charm copied from the holy Koran, 
a tiny silver fish with a slender rod thrust through its 
head and a hollow body to hold and apply mascara. 



The Peddler's Visit 


III 

The girl sighed regretfully. 

“I have no money.” 

“No money! A \hanoum who weaves rugs in her 
factory surely has a few \rans to buy a pretty bag or a 
little silver trinket.” 

“But the rugs are not yet sold. I have no money, I 
say.” 

“Perhaps, if I should return in a few days, the rugs 
will be sold and you will take the little fish?” 

“In a few days? No, in a very few days—two or three, 
insh’allah —we shall be going to our summer garden 
and I shall not be in the city again until autumn.” 

The peddler continued to hold up first one curio and 
then another. With a sigh of resignation, he finally 
gathered up the treasures, knotted the opposite corners 
of the kerchief together, and lifted the bundle to his 
shoulders. 


























XIV 

A GIFT OF BREAD 


“Yonder peasant has full saddlebags,” Mustapha 
Khan chuckled to his wife as they jogged over the don¬ 
key trail to their summer garden, “so full he can scarce¬ 
ly balance himself on his donkey. How I should like 
to see him tumble off!” 

Farrukh studied the figure intently. 

“It is the peddler,” she decided. “He came into the 
garden yesterday afternoon and had some pretty trinkets 
158 





A Gift of Bread 


159 


—a little silver fish . . she recollected. “It was just 
before you came home. And when you came in so un¬ 
expectedly and said to make haste and pack the saddle¬ 
bags, that we were going to the Darreh today, I forgot 
about him in the excitement.” 

Then she related all the details of his visit, the tan¬ 
talizing objects in his bundle, his offer to come back 
when she had money from the sale of the rugs. 

“It was such a pretty little silver fish to hold mascara. 
I wanted it for my beauty box,” she concluded wistfully. 

“Jasmine is a vain child,” Mustapha teased his wife. 
“Perhaps she remembers a story from the poet Sa’adi: 
‘An old woman had stained her gray locks black. I 
said to her: Oh, my antiquated dame! Thy hair I admit 
thou canst turn dark by art, but thou never canst make 
thy crooked back straight.’ ” 

Mas’udeh Khanoum, who was riding close by, sniffed 
disdainfully. Her son’s wife might be able to read ten 
books and quote a hundred lines of poetry, but she had 
not yet learned her place. She should be riding behind 
her husband instead of beside him, and riding silently 
instead of conversing with him like another man. 

“And how did the peddler know you had rugs to 
sell?” he asked sharply. 

“That I know not,” Farrukh replied in astonishment, 
as she realized that it had been the peddler who first 
mentioned them. 

“Perhaps your tongue is longer than your memory,” 



i6o 


Jasmine 


her mother-in-law reminded her tartly, “like others in 
your family.” 

So Mustapha had mentioned to his mother his sus¬ 
picion of Abdullah! 

Would it be like this all summer, Farrukh wondered 
bitterly? Mas’udeh had been kind to her at first, but 
since Mustapha’s recent trouble with the police she had 
laid aside the pose of friendliness and become openly 
hostile. Many a bride began married life in the home 
of her husband’s mother and had to endure this torment 
for years before going into a separate home. She, Far¬ 
rukh, had been unusually fortunate to be mistress of 
her own home from the first and now found it exceed¬ 
ingly difficult to refrain from reply. 

Mustapha Khan pointed to the distant rider. 

“Look! Look! The man has seen us, but he likes not 
our company. See! He is leading the donkey down to 
that clump of willows by the brook. A jab! He is dump¬ 
ing the saddlebags among the low seedlings. And now 
he jumps on the donkey and dashes across the field. 
A jab! How he goads it! Whither is he bound that he 
leaves the trail in such haste?” 

The peddler fled over the hill and was lost to sight. 
Mustapha Khan kicked his donkey with both heels. 

“Wait for me at the brook,” he shouted, already sev¬ 
eral yards ahead of the rest of the party. From among 
the willows he dragged out the heavy saddlebags and 
jerked them open. 



r 



The peddler fled over the hills 










A Gift of Bread 


161 


“Opium! ” he exclaimed in astonishment, as a heavy, 
sweetish odor filled his nostrils. “And he carried his 
crop in the wrong direction—from the city, instead of 
to the government office. So! He must belong to a 
smuggling ring! Somewhere in these hills they secretly 
refine it into commercial form and smuggle it down to 
the gulf. There must be a greater quantity elsewhere, 
if he risked the loss of even this considerable amount.” 

The other travelers were already waiting, when Mus- 
tapha Khan dragged the saddlebags up to the trail. 

“Here, Mahmud! ” he motioned to the servant. “Load 
these bags on my donkey. Your own beast is so heavily 
laden with household goods he can carry no more. And 
don’t stand there sniffing like a cat!” 

The party finally reached the summer garden. Like 
many other summer places, it was surrounded by or¬ 
chards and was far distant from other houses. With a 
natural privacy already provided, it was necessary to 
have low stone walls only high enough to serve as 
boundary lines. No gate was needed in this rustic abode. 

Mustapha Khan led the way up the lane. In front of 
the house he stopped. 

“The door stands open! The cellar storerooms are un¬ 
locked ! ” he cried in amazement. He ran up the steps. 

“Someone has been here ... has just left,” he an¬ 
nounced to the others, who were now close on his heels. 
“Here is a samovar, still hot.” 

A rapid search of the house and garden revealed other 



i 62 


Jasmine 


items left in the hurried departure—a pipe, a wheat sack, 
a small wooden spatula. 

“Master, where shall I tether the donkeys?” Mahmud 
wanted to know. “The storeroom which you always 
use for a stable contains supplies. Will you come and 
see? It smells of taria\” 

And, indeed, there in the manger was another bag 
of opium. This, Mustapha Khan found upon examina¬ 
tion, had been expertly kneaded and molded into the 
standard cylindrical form for commercial use. 

“So this was their trick, to use my own garden as 
their hiding-place,” he frowned. “Last year they were 
unmolested because we did not use the garden. This 
year they were taken by surprise and left part of their 
equipment in their sudden flight.” 

The members of this daring ring had used for their 
base the very garden of one who worked in the revenue 
office, whose business it was to regulate the opium trade 
and track down offenders. They had relied upon the 
reputation of the owner of the garden to allay the suspi¬ 
cion of any person who might chance to see someone 
about the house. And they had watched Mustapha 
Khan’s movements closely to learn exactly when he 
would move up to the hills so that they could vanish in 
good time. Mustapha Khan would finish his work on 
the opium crop at the same time as the smugglers. Their 
plans synchronized perfectly. 

Mahmud tethered the donkeys to poplar trees by the 







A Gift of Bread 


163 


irrigation stream which ran near the house, while Mus- 
tapha Khan wrote with swift, excited jabs a note to his 
chief. His face hardened into stern lines as he handed 
the letter to the servant. 

“Carry this to the Head of the Department of Finance. 
You will not find him in the office today, but in his 
garden on the Street Kabobian. Give it to him and to 
no one else. Wait for an answer. It may be he will 
speak to you privately. But if he gives you a letter, hide 
it in your girdle and then return at once. If anyone 
speaks to you, tell them you go to get the charcoal you 
forgot—it might be well to bring a small quantity with 
you—but say nothing of this taria\ which was found. 
If you say even one word, you will ‘eat the sticks!’ ” 

Mahmud blanched at mention of the bastinado and 
swore with alacrity and vehemence that he would pluck 
out his own tongue before he would reveal the secret. 

Mustapha Khan and Farrukh sat down beside the 
rose bushes to hold council while the \ulfat swept the 
rooms and disposed of the furnishings and food which 
had been brought up to the garden. Mas’udeh Khanoum 
superintended the work, much to Shokat’s grumbling 
disgust. 

Scarcely had the two seated themselves by the bushes, 
when a man cautiously appeared around the corner of 
the house. It was Abbas. Catching sight of the couple 
seated on the ground, he turned to flee. Then, recog- 






Jasmine 


164 

nizing them, he turned back again and came forward 
a few steps. 

“Peace be with you!” he saluted gravely and held out 
the bundle he had been carrying under his arm. “The 
mother of Osra sends to the \hanoum some bread which 
she baked on the stones only this morning. There is 
bread enough in the bundle to last several days.” He 
bowed and hurried away while Mustapha Khan was 
still thanking him. 

Farrukh unrolled the long strips of bread. “It is only 
bazaar bread; it is not home-made,” she whispered to 
her husband. 

“I don’t believe he ever brought this for a gift,” Mus¬ 
tapha quickly interposed. “You said he always used to 
wait for Osra’s wages. He is the kind who is so stingy 
that if, in the place of his loaf of bread, the orb of the 
sun had been in his wallet, nobody would have seen 
daylight until the Day of Judgment.” 

Farrukh’s imagination leaped to life. 

“Mustapha! Mustapha! I have guessed it. He brings 
food to those men who hid themselves up here. He did 
not know we had come and that they had vanished. 
He gave us the bread, a gift, only to save his face.” 

“There he is now, loitering in the far end of the 
garden, probably wondering where to look for his 
friends,” Mustapha said. 

“Ho, there! Abbas! Come back! I would speak 
with you!” 



A Gift of. Bread 


165 

Abbas turned and stood uncertainly for a full minute. 
Then he retraced his way with slow steps. 

The Khan smiled with disarming friendliness upon 
the uneasy Abbas. “The khanoum says that the child 
Osra kept your family in food with her wages from the 
loom. Is it so?” 

“It is true.” 

“And now that the weaving is finished for the sum¬ 
mer, she is without work, and you have no occupation?” 

“None, honorable master. It is hard to find work. 
The bazaars are already crowded with apprentices and 
porters and vendors.” 

“But you would like to have work?” 

“Indeed, yes, master.” 

“Then I can help you. I shall need a man to bring 
food from the city several days a week and to take care 
of the alfalfa which grows in this garden.” 

“You are very kind,” Abbas replied without enthu¬ 
siasm. 

“Two krans for each day that you work?” 

“You are very generous. Let it be two krans,” Abbas 
repeated. In his slow mind he was beginning to realize 
how he might serve two masters and make double 
wages. Then, whenever he was sent on a long journey 
to the south, he would merely fail to appear at the gar¬ 
den. He chuckled to himself as he went down the hill¬ 
side, casting furtive glances along the way for some trace 
of his vanished companions. 



i66 


Jasmine 


“And now,” concluded the young lawyer, when Ab¬ 
bas was finally out of sight, “I shall set a watch on that 
fool and he will lead me straight to his fellow smugglers. 
For I think he kept them informed of my movements 
so long as Osra worked at the loom. When the weaving 
was finished, your peddler was sent to spy on us and 
learn when we would leave the city.” 

“That is how he knew about the rugs,” Farrukh ex¬ 
claimed. “Abbas must have told him.” 

“Yes, and the peddler was on his way up here to tell 
them they had a few more days in which to load their 
supplies and move southward. They would have been 
gone, with every trace removed, but for this unexpected 
holiday which made it possible for me to bring you 
here today. 

“This is great good luck for me to identify two mem¬ 
bers of the gang, if only inferiors, and to seize those 
bags of opium and a spatula for kneading the wax. 
Evidence and identification! They both speak loud be¬ 
fore the law. The more the gardener prunes his vines, 
the more he adds to his crop of grapes. The Department 
of Finance will be delighted with this harvest, I can 
assure you!” 









XV 


TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 
Long was Farrukh to remember the happenings of 
that night. 

Twilight faded into dark—an inky blackness out 
here on the hills, for there was no moon to lighten the 
shadows. Farrukh and Mustapha sat waiting quietly on 
the verandah for Mahmud’s return. Far-off sounds 
sounded sharply on the stillness, the bark of a distant 
dog, the rattle of pebbles under hoofs as a donkey passed 
on the road below. The evening drew on, and still Mah¬ 
mud did not return. Mustapha grew impatient. 

167 



168 


Jasmine 


“If he has loitered on the way it will cost him dearly!” 
he muttered. 

“Can any accident have happened?” Farrukh’s voice 
was anxious. 

“Not likely. He had only to deliver the letter and 
come straight back with the answer.” 

At last they could hear the sound of the donkey’s 
hoofs, drawing gradually nearer up the hill path to the 
house. And with it, as they strained their ears, that of 
a man’s footsteps, curiously slow and fumbling, pausing 
it seemed at every few steps as if to grope the way. 

Mustapha caught up a lantern. By its yellow light, 
flickering across the garden, they could see Mahmud, 
walking close to the donkey’s side as if for support, his 
hands tied behind him and his mouth gagged. 

“Son of a burnt father! What is this?” Mustapha ex¬ 
claimed angrily, dragging the gag from the servant’s 
mouth and cutting the cord that bound his hands. 
“What has happened? Where is the message?” 

“May I be your sacrifice, master, the jinns attacked 
me. Evil spirits they were that dragged me from the 
beast and mauled me on the ground. When I came to, 
I was as you saw me. By the help of Allah I got to my 
feet at last, and only by keeping close to this patient 
beast here could I make my way back. The message .. 
he felt in his disarranged girdle, “the jinns have eaten 
the message. It was tucked in my girdle. Now it is 
gone.” 



Trial Without Jury _ 169 

“Yes, the jinns ate the message. And you shall eat 
the sticks. You disobeyed . . 

“Not the sticks, master! ” Mahmud began to blubber. 
“Not the sticks! I kept your command. I told no one.” 

“But you tarried in the town. Had you returned in 
broad day, this would not have happened.” 

“Master, bid me do something else, but spare the 
sticks.” 

“Very well!” The master withdrew threat of the bas¬ 
tinado. “Show me then how brave you are. There may 
be visitors tonight—unwelcome visitors—who wish to 
regain their opium. You and I shall sit here in the dark¬ 
ness and wait for them.” 

The lantern was extinguished. At a word from her 
husband Farrukh had slipped back into the house, but 
she was too excited to seek her bed. Instead she crouched 
close to the window, listening, watching, while Mus- 
tapha sofdy questioned Mahmud about his visit. In 
whispers the servant described the interview, the Chief’s 
amazement as he read the letter, the swiftness with 
which he had penned a reply. 

“But what did he say to you?” Mustapha Khan de¬ 
manded desperately. “Have you no idea what he 
wrote?” 

“Would I read that which was intended for my mas¬ 
ter?” Mahmud returned proudly. “Besides, you know 
that I cannot tell cdeph from bey.” 

Pondering the Chief’s possible message, Mustapha 



Jasmine 


170 

Khan at last grew drowsy and setded himself against 
the house wall. How long he had slept he did not know. 
But he roused quickly when he felt Mahmud pressing 
his arm and whispering. “Hark! master, they have 
come!” He was trembling like a poplar leaf. 

Mustapha Khan was fully awake in an instant, lis¬ 
tening intently to the faint scratching sound that came 
from the stable door. Farrukh, alert within doors, heard 
it too. 

“Good! They are without lights. They prefer the 
darkness, even when they fumble with the rusty pad¬ 
lock. So much the better for us! Now, Mahmud, be 
off!” 

Mahmud padded away on bare feet. Yet, still as he 
was, the sensitive ears of the prowler must have caught 
a faint sound, for the suspicious scratching ceased. 

For several minutes the listeners waited in suspense. 

Scratch! Scrape! Click! The padlock fell apart. 
Farrukh could hear Mustapha Khan shout aloud: 

“Ho, there! Lieutenant, surround the house with 
your men! We’ve got him this time. Quick!” 

From the direction of the rosebushes a metallic whistle 
pierced the night. Mahmud was carrying out his secret 
orders. 

“Scatter!” The command came low but clear. Twigs 
moved and crackled, bushes rustled; and a heavy club 
whacked the poplar tree near the corner of the house. 

Frightened by the prospect of being caught, as they 



Trial Without Jury 


111 

thought, in a police trap, the prowler and his confed¬ 
erates fled pell-mell from the house, nor made any effort 
to prevent rattling stones from betraying the direction 
they had taken. Their one thought seemed to be to put 
distance between them and the house. 

Faindy and still more faintly their retreat sounded 
down the hill and across the fields. When he was cer¬ 
tain that the intruders had departed not to return again, 
Mustapha Khan whistled cautiously. In a moment bare 
feet padded across the verandah. 

Mustapha Khan chuckled softly. 

“Good work, Mahmud! You dashed back and forth 
so quickly you almost made me too believe there were 
a dozen men in the garden. What those fellows would 
have done had they known there were only two of us 
on guard might be a different story. I don’t think they 
will return tonight, and in the morning the opium will 
be gone. As soon as darkness fell, we carried it to the 
roof. The old thief would have had small reward, even 
if he had got into the umbar. 

“Now you sleep here on the verandah the rest of the 
night. I shall go up on the roof.” 

The sight of a police squad climbing the hill next 
morning brought relief to the entire household. 

“As soon as the Chief gets this opium into the ware¬ 
house, we shall not be troubled with smugglers again,” 
Mustapha Khan told his wife and mother, “and you 
will be safe while I am in the city during the day.” 



172 


Jasmine 


“Salaam!” the officer in charge of the squad greeted 
the Khan. “There is taria\ here; we have come for it. 
Where is it? Bring it forth.” 

“I carried it to the roof last night. You can use that 
ladder,” Mustapha pointed to a rickety contrivance made 
of crooked poplar branches. Two men nimbly climbed 
to the roof, while the officer and other two stayed with 
Mustapha Khan. 

“Shokat,” the master called to the \ulfat, “bring tea.” 

The tea was brought in and handed around to the 
five men, the Khan himself serving them. 

“You are taking great trouble,” murmured the of¬ 
ficer. 

“It is proper to stand up and administer to him whom 
thou has seated on thy carpet, or made thy guest,” the 
host reminded him politely. “You walked a long way 
this morning and you need refreshment.” 

“By my eyes! It was a long walk, and you shall enjoy 
it, too,” the officer said as he stood up. “You will walk 
ahead.” 

“But I do not go down to the city for another hour. 
The Head of the Department of Finance does not ex¬ 
pect me so soon.” 

“The Chief of Finance, perhaps not. But it is the 
Chief of Police who expects you this morning. I have 
an order for your arrest.” 

“My arrest! What do you mean?” 

One of the underlings spoke up. 



Trial Without Jury 


m 

“Oh, sir, you can’t smuggle taria\, even if you are an 
important official. You are sure to be found out. It is 
\ismet.” 

“You are mistaken,” Mustapha Khan replied coldly. 
“This taria\ I found here when I came up to the garden 
yesterday. I have already communicated with the In¬ 
ternal Revenue Office. They are coming for it this 
morning.” 

“It makes a pretty story,” the officer politely assented, 
“but you will come with us—now!” 

All oratory and threats of legal retribution were with¬ 
out avail. The officer had been commanded to hand over 
Mustapha Khan to the Chief of Police and he intended 
to do so. 

From indoors, pressed as close as she dared to the 
open window, Farrukh had watched all that went on 
with terror and dismay. She could not hear all that 
was said, but the few words she did catch were enough 
to set her heart racing. What mistake was this—surely 
these men were wrong, and her husband could clear the 
matter up in a few moments. But they weren’t even 
listening to him. She saw his face, grim and set, as he 
came to bid her a swift good-bye. There was no time 
for words, even. 

“It’s all right, Farrukh. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll 
be back soon. Once I see the Chief all will be settled.” 

If only it would! With anxious eyes she watched him 
turn and stride away. 



174 


Jasmine 


The young Khan walked before the policemen in bit¬ 
terness of heart. “Who is plotting against me?” he pon¬ 
dered the question without solution. “What was my 
Chief’s message? As soon as he learns of this deed, he 
will make it right. I need not worry about that, but I 
must discover who my enemies are.” 

The Chief of Police received Mustapha Khan with 
visible embarrassment. 

“This is a serious offense, Mustapha Khan, as you well 
know, and the evidence is very plainly against you. 
You had established a fair name with the governor and 
the Department of Finance. Was that only a shield? 
Thy virtues thou hast exposed in the palm of thy hand; 
thy vices thou hast hid under thy armpit. Is it not so?” 

“It is not.” The young man was emphatic in his de¬ 
nial. “The Head of the Department of Finance will tell 
you that I informed him of this opium cache yesterday. 
He will clear me and procure my release.” 

“The Head of the Department of Finance,” the Chief 
of Police said slowly, “has already agreed that we should 
prosecute the case. He remarked that he was always 
glad to see smugglers brought to justice.” 

In contrast to their speedy apprehension of the Khan, 
the Police Department now procrastinated with little 
or no excuse and did not bring their culprit to trial for 
more than a week. Even the Internal Revenue officials 
became disgusted with their laziness and finally went 
to the Chief of Police personally and insisted that the 



Trial Without Jury 


111 


trial be delayed no longer. And to Farrukh that one 
week was a year of torture, with the accusing eyes of 
Mas’udeh on her whenever she looked up. 

Mustapha Khan was judged by the court to be suffi¬ 
ciently versed in the law to defend himself without the 
aid of an attorney. Notwithstanding the force that in¬ 
nocence gives to an appeal, the young assistant in the 
Revenue Office could not convince the court that he was 
not guilty of collecting opium from a smuggling ring. 
The Chief of Finance, who would have been his best 
witness, failed to appear in spite of the interest, both per¬ 
sonal and professional, which he should have had in 
the case. 

The trial was a farce throughout. After reading the 
charge, the police chief brought out his witnesses: the 
police officer who with his squad had found the saddle¬ 
bags full of unstamped opium in the culprit’s garden; 
a woman who had informed the police in a hoarse voice 
of seeing the Khan carry suspicious loads toward the hills 
every night during the opium harvest; a thickset, heav¬ 
ily bearded man with thick-lens spectacles who testified 
to observing from the adjoining garden that a rendez¬ 
vous had taken place in the Khan’s summer garden sev¬ 
eral nights during the opium harvest and that on two 
occasions the men drove laden donkeys when they de¬ 
parted. 

To these charges Mustapha Khan denied all knowl¬ 
edge except that opium had been found on his prop- 



176 


Jasmine 


erty. But no one appeared to corroborate his statement 
that he had given notice to the Internal Revenue Office 
previous to its confiscation. 

Reluctantly the Chief of Police announced that he 
found the defendant guilty of being an accomplice in 
opium smuggling. 

“It is superfluous for me to tell you the penalty for 
this offense, Mustapha Khan,” the Chief gravely con¬ 
tinued. “Your own connection with the Department 
of Finance and the office of Internal Revenue particu¬ 
larly has made you aware of the punishment for such 
offenses. For one who has used an honorable public 
office as a cloak to hide his nefarious traffic, the crime is 
the greater. If public servants are required by the civil 
service law to give up eating or smoking opium, how 
much worse should trafficking in the drug be regarded! 

“For this offense you are fined fifty tomans and re¬ 
moved from the position of Assistant in the Internal 
Revenue Office of the Department of Finance.” 

Anger blazed in the eyes of Mustapha Khan. The 
injustice of it! The Chief of Police seemed eager to get 
at the true facts in the case; yet he had not doubted the 
veracity of the witnesses, whose appearance was far from 
trustworthy. The defendant studied the scene intently, 
photographing in his mind every face in the room—the 
presiding officer, the police squad and other witnesses, 
even the casual spectators who had squatted on the floor 
and idly listened to the trial of the rich young Khan. 



Trial Without Jury 


121 


“Among this group are some who are my enemies, 
some who have plotted against me. I shall remember 
their faces and some day uncover their work.” He re¬ 
turned the brazen stare of the hoarse-voiced woman, the 
evil squint of the thickset neighbor who had undoubt¬ 
edly only rented a summer garden, the curious glances 
of the spectators. Then he turned and left the court¬ 
room. Fortunately, he had merely to send a note to 
the wheat merchant with whom he had credit and then 
wait for his release only until the court accepted the 
credit memorandum. 

A few personal belongings—law books, pens, a water 
pipe—were scattered about his room in the revenue of¬ 
fice. He was collecting them into a pile when the Chief 
stepped into the room. 

“Peace be with you! ” he greeted the young man. 

“With you be peace!” Mustapha replied mechan¬ 
ically. 

“And were you preparing to leave without so much 
as a word of farewell?” 

“You knew I had been removed from office. You 
knew I was innocent and yet you did not come to testify 
for me. I restored smuggled opium to your office. 
And this is my reward! Can I hold kind feelings to¬ 
ward you after this?” 

“The sky enriches the earth with rain, and the earth 
gives it dust in return. As the Arabs say: ‘What the 
vessels have, they give.’ If my moral character strike 



Jasmine 


n i 

thee as improper, do not renounce thine own good char¬ 
acter.” 

“But why did you fail me? Why did you not come to 
my aid?” 

“Perhaps I did. Perhaps my absence was a greater aid 
to you than my presence would have been,” the Chief 
gravely rebuked the young man. “Perhaps your eyes 
and ears discovered much that would not have been dis¬ 
closed had I been in the courtroom. Did you not see 
your accusers? Had I been there to testify for you, the 
case might have been dropped altogether.” 

“Yes, my accusers I saw and they succeeded in having 
me removed from office. But what does it profit me 
to know their faces and even their voices their names 
were doubtless assumed—if I am powerless to avenge 
myself?” 

The Chief sat on the corner of the hand-made walnut 
table where his assistant had penned so many documents. 

“It will profit you just this much, Mustapha Khan. 
These smugglers will continue to trouble us until we 
catch them. If we do not catch them, they may send a 
big shipment out of the country and then you and I 
will both be removed from office for negligence. My 
staying away from the trial today was your opportunity 
to identify as many of those conspirators as possible. 
They would not have dared to show themselves if I 
had been there, but they had no fear of you. 

“Now tell me all that you learned.” 



XVI 

THE SEEDS OF IDLENESS 

“So you see,” Mustapha finished, “I am not disgraced, 
after all, but merely promoted to another job.” 

“So it was a trick,” said Farrukh. 

It was the first moment since her husband’s arrest 
and subsequent release that they had had the chance of a 
private talk together. Sitting now under the apricot tree 
in the garden, they spoke in lowered tones. 

“Not altogether,” Mustapha said. “The information 
was laid against me, all right; they had only to let the 
arrest and trial take its course. The Chief knew all along 


179 


i8o 


Jasmine 


it was just another plot to get me out of the way, but 
if he had told me about it I might have acted differendy 
in the courtroom and betrayed myself, and he dared not 
risk that. The thing was to let them believe they had 
succeeded, and that now, deposed from office, I can be 
of no further danger to them. 

“That was why he could not let even you know, in 
case by some accident the truth came out. He explained 
it all to me. And now I am to leave at once, on a special 
mission as investigator. But of this nothing will be an¬ 
nounced. You, Farrukh, will stay here with my mother. 
Mahmud has his instructions, and I shall write to you. 
Who knows but that in this interval, with me, as they 
think, disgraced and safely out of the way, a good many 
strange things may come to light! ” 

With Mustapha Khan away the days passed tran¬ 
quilly and uneventfully in the large summer house on 
the hills; a relief to Farrukh after the anxiety and sus¬ 
pense of the past two weeks. She spent her time in the 
garden, sewing or embroidering to add to the steadily- 
growing pile of baby clothes tucked away in the painted 
chest. 

And as she sewed, there, not far distant, was the dili¬ 
gent Abbas. No gardener in all Iran, not even those 
who cared for the royal gardens in Teheran, spent more 
time and effort on his plot of ground than did Abbas 
on the five or six acres of Mustapha Khan’s summer 
garden. Although he had been instructed to come only 



The Seeds of Idleness 


181 

three days a week with food from the bazaar and tend 
the alfalfa on those days, Abbas displayed an abnormal 
zeal for gardening and appeared every morning. True, 
the alfalfa grew surprisingly fast and required frequent 
attention, and Abbas did make himself useful mending 
the broken patches in the stone wall. But Farrukh, 
though she knew her husband’s reason for employing 
him, disliked the man and chafed under his unhindered 
surveillance. 

One day she said to him, “Abbas, the master expects 
you to come only on alternate days. You are not to 
come every day. He will pay for only three days a 
week.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” Abbas had replied good- 
naturedly. “It is so much cooler here than in the city, 
I’d rather come up here and work every day, even 
though I do not receive pay for all my work.” And no 
amount of argument could induce him to abide by the 
three-day arrangement. 

Sometimes, though rarely, visitors came to break the 
monotony of the daily round. One morning there ar¬ 
rived Maluk Khanoum, who had been Farrukh’s neigh¬ 
bor in the city. 

Warm and breathless from the last steep climb up 
the path, she greeted her hostesses ceremonially and 
then settled herself with a sigh of relief on the rug, 
letting her long black veil fall on the floor beside her. 

Shokat shuffled into the room on numerous errands 



i 82 


Jasmine 


with the steaming samovar, a tray of tiny glasses in 
carved metal holders, a tray of cucumbers and another 
of apricots, elaborate silver dishes containing candied 
quince jelly, parched peas, watermelon seeds and squash 
seeds. 

“Ah, these idle-time seeds!” the visitor remarked with 
hearty appreciation, after the second glass of tea had 
been consumed in ceremonious silence. “How sweet 
and crisp they are! Do you prepare them yourself or 
do you find them in the bazaar?” She placed a water¬ 
melon seed vertically between her front teeth, cracked 
the hard black outer shell, and extracted the sweet 
kernel. 

“I prepare my own busywork,” Farrukh primly re¬ 
plied, pleased by the woman’s audible enjoyment. “I 
suppose I prepare them just as you do. I select seeds 
from the ripest melons, soak them in brine, and then 
roast them in the oven.” 

“Yes, yes!” the guest nodded vigorously. “But some¬ 
how they taste different.” 

“The melons were from Tuhistan,” the \ulfat mut¬ 
tered under her breath as she stood behind the door, out 
of sight but within earshot. 

Mas’udeh critically peeled a cucumber lengthwise and 
nibbled at one end. “And so you, too, live in the Street 
of The Mulberry Trees?” she inquired of their guest. 

“Yes, in the garden adjoining your son’s garden. 
And last night at sunset, as I looked toward your son’s 



The Seeds of Idleness 


183 

home, I said to myself, I would make a picnic to the 
Darreh on the morrow and see how your health has 
been. I always go out of the city on the Tenth of Saffar. 
Less harm is apt to befall one in the country on such 
an unlucky day. So this morning my sons brought me 
part way up the ravine. I ate my bread and cheese in 
yonder orchard and told my sons to meet me there at 
sunset.” 

The prospect of a four-hour visit delighted both Far- 
rukh and her mother-in-law. Maluk Khanoum brought 
all the news of the Street and some of the bazaar gossip 
as well. Did they know that there had been a wedding 
in one of the gardens down the street? Maluk Khanoum 
had stood on the roof of her house to watch and had 
seen nine boys march into the garden with paper- 
trimmed trays of sweetmeats balanced on their heads. 
They must have served arra\, for some of the men con¬ 
ducted themselves disgracefully. 

And did they know that Shamse Khanoum had had 
twins, but that they died? And it was a pity, too, for 
they were both boys. 

“Oh!” cried Farrukh in startled anguish. “Did she 
use no charms? Could she not have had the mullah 
write a prayer which would save them? Suppose . . . 
suppose something happened to my baby. . . .” 

“Hush, Farrukh! ” Mas’udeh Khanoum spoke not un¬ 
kindly. “You are a strong, healthy girl. Your litde one 
will be all right.” 



184 


Jasmine 


“Yes, yes!” the visitor sought to amend her blunder. 
“With you it will be different. Shamse Khanoum had 
had many children, fourteen of them, and was tired of 
living. She did not give her babes the will to live. But 
you are eager to have your child, are you not? ^Yith 
you all will be well—may God so will it! 

“But let me tell you more of the city news. 

Like the song of the canary when its warbling is 
interspersed with noisy pecking at birdseed in the cage, 
their light chatter continued to the accompaniment of 
snapping and cracking squash and melon seeds. The 
seeds of idleness provided a desirable amount of busy- 
work for a lazy afternoon. 

Promptly at sunset the guest requested permission to 
depart. The farewell glass of tea was served and Maluk 
Khanoum gathered up her robe and pulled the veil 
across her face. 

“Now that this evil day is past, I shall not fear to 
return to the city,” she said. “Ill luck might have be¬ 
fallen me in the city. Is it not so, Mas’udeh Khanoum?” 

“You speak truly,” the elder woman agreed. 

“God protect you! May God’s protection go with 
you!” they said to each other in the doorway, and the 
guest went down the hillside to meet her sons, who also 
had been spending the day in the country. 

Soon after Maluk Khanoum had bidden her hostess 
good-bye, Mahmud presented himself in the garden 
with a letter for Farrukh. He had waded ankle-deep 



The Seeds of Idleness 


185 

in the dust and was hot and tired, but his salaam was as 
polished and deliberate as that of a courtier. 

“How do you know it is from the master ?” Farrukh 
asked quickly, as she took the thin square envelope 
sealed with heavy red wax. 

“May I be your sacrifice, I asked the postman to read 
the seal. He said it was that of the Khan. So I set out 
with it at once.” 

Farrukh broke the seals and looked eagerly at the 
letter within. Mustapha’s handwriting was somewhat 
different from the script of her reading book, and there¬ 
fore more difficult for her to decipher. Yet only a mo¬ 
ment sufficed to give her the glad news of the first 
sentence. 

“Tomorrow at dawn I shall set out on my homeward 
journey, insh’cdlah, and I hope to be in Hamadan almost 
as soon as this letter.” 

He was on his way! He was nearing home. Tomor¬ 
row’s sun would shine upon his return. 

“How I long to behold you, my little Jasmine! And 
my mother, Mas’udeh Khanoum, what of her health? 
And Shokat? And Mahmud? And that old rascal, 
Abbas? I had thought to watch him and instead he has 
had a clear field to watch us.” 

Abbas! There he was, over yonder, most innocently 
weeding a flower bed. Thoughtfully, Farrukh folded 
the sheets of her letter, replacing them in the envelope 
for a later more leisurely reading. But she did not at 



i86 


Jasmine 


once return to the house. Back and forth, back and 
forth she paced, her brows knit in earnest thought. “I 
had thought to watch him,” Mustapha Khan had said. 
But he was not here to watch, and she, Farrukh, was. 
Only that morning, Abbas had inquired of the master 
and his probable return. 

Farrukh stopped in her pacing. Ah! That was it. 
But what would Mustapha Khan say to this plan that 
now flashed into her mind? Would he approve? Or 
would his anger rise against her that she had presumed 
beyond her place? In swift decision, she threw back her 
head. 

“Mahmud!” she called. Then, as the servant stood 
before her, she continued quietly, “I would have you 
accompany Abbas when he returns to the city tonight. 
Let him make conversation with you, whereupon do 
you say to him that you brought a letter from Mustapha 
Khan today and that the master will return in three days. 
Tell him you go to the Street of The Mulberry Trees 
to fetch papers desired by the master. 

“Go with Abbas as far as his gate—it is on your way. 
Then bid him good-bye and pass on. But when he has 
gone within, loiter nearby, in a recessed doorway. Abbas 
will come out again, but it will be dark when he does 
so, of that I am certain. And if you take care, he will 
not see you. Follow him cautiously and discover where 
he goes. Whatever gate he enters, stay without until 
he leaves or until someone else comes out. Discover all 



The Seeds of Idleness 


187 


that you possibly can about the place and who is in it. 

“Listen, Mahmud. Listen to each of my words. Do 
you recall that night the prowlers came, the first night 
we were here? You may see some of those men tonight. 
But if you are cautious, you will be in no danger. And 
if you are alert, you may bring back word which will 
please the master mightily and cause him to reward 
you well. 

“So mark well what I have said, and return to me in 
the morning. Return early, before Abbas arrives, to give 
me an account of what has transpired. That Abbas will 
be about tonight, I am certain, and for this reason, 
Mahmud. As soon as you tell him the master is on his 
way back, he will try to communicate with his band. 
Do you understand?” 

“I am the sacrifice. It shall be done as you command,” 
the servant assured her. 

Supper was no more than a gulp of dugh —diluted 
clabber—and a nibble of bread. Then for an hour or 
more, Farrukh puzzled over the remaining pages of her 
husband’s letter. Though his handwriting was so beau¬ 
tiful it looked like a picture to her, Farrukh found the 
reading of it more difficult by far than the mirza’s les¬ 
sons. But despite its difficulty, the girl persevered in 
her labor of love and the finger that thoughtfully traced 
a puzzling word laid on each dot and curve a light 
caress. 

The letter told of Mustapha’s mission, of his new 



i88 


Jasmine 


hopes that the mystery of the smuggling might shortly 
be solved, and of his trip. And last of all: 

“As soon as I return, I must spend a day at least in 
the city making my report to the Tax Collector. Then, 
if he gives me leave, I shall take three or four days to 
go to Tuhistan and collect rents—and I shall want you 
to accompany me. After that, it is probable that I shall 
be sent to Ispahan. How would you like to make that 
journey, too? 

“Now, little Jasmine! Adorn yourself prettily, for 
another day will bring the return of Mustapha.” 

In the swift joyousness of the thought was reflected, 
“Tuhistan! He is going to take me home for a visit!” 
All her constant longing for the sight again of her 
mother’s face, all her homesickness for her father and 
her brothers and the old, familiar sights of the little 
village. Home! She was going home! 

Then, just as swiftly, remembrance of her husband’s 
suspicion of her father stabbed the joyousness. Deep 
within Mustapha’s mind, belief in Abdullah’s guilt still 
lingered. He would demand proof of innocence, and 
if none was brought forward—what was it the Khan 
had said? “I will turn him out to tend sheep.” Oh, my 
father, my dear, dear father.... 




XVII 

SHADOWING THE SHADOWER 
While accompanying Abbas to his house, Mahmud 
informed him that his master was to return in three 
days. Then he bade him good-bye and went along to¬ 
ward the Street of The Mulberry Trees. He turned a 
corner and waited in a recessed opening for Abbas to 
pass so that he could follow. 

Mahmud found no great difficulty in keeping at a 
discreet distance from Abbas. It was not this that wor¬ 
ried him. What he feared was the danger of evil spirits. 
Jinns were always abroad at night. They had attacked 

189 

















190 


Jasmine 


him once before and might follow him again. Or, he 
might step on one in the dark and have a tribe of them 
seeking vengeance on him. But what could he do? To 
disobey the JJianoum’s order would mean the bastinado 
when the master returned. And no jinn could inflict 
more pain than the cruel beating of the bastinado. 

“I am the sacrifice,” Mahmud grumbled under his 
breath. “The bastinado or the jinns —one of them will 
get me.” 

Many a stretch of the way was in darkness, for a 
jutting house wall often turned the course of the street 
and shut out the feeble rays of the infrequent street 
lights. Abbas carried no lantern, but he knew the way 
so well he might have walked with equal certainty in 
total darkness. 

As if thrust into the open street by unfriendly garden 
walls stood The Camel Tower close to the outskirts of 
the city and only a stone’s throw from the Musallah hill. 
Thirteen centuries before it had been a stately tower 
where camels were sacrificed in religious ceremony. To 
this day the blackened interior of the sacrificial tower 
recalls stories of those rites, and the name clings to the 
structure though the people have long since abandoned 
the practice. 

Before the door of this ancient structure Abbas paused 
to look up and down the passageway. Seeing no one, he 
picked up a stone and tossed it lightly against the grill- 
work of the window. 



Shadowing the Shadower 


191 

Hugging the shadows against a nearby wall, Mahmud 
waited breathlessly. A hoarse voice at the window 
brought a cautious answer from Abbas, the door opened 
a mere crack, and he slipped inside. 

For several minutes Mahmud held himself taut 
against the wall. Then he relaxed and by degrees set¬ 
tled down until he was squatting comfortably on the 
cobblestones. For what seemed an interminably long 
time he sat there. He had just begun to think that 
Abbas had gone in for the night, when he was aroused 
by the creaking of the door. In a flash he was on his 
feet, flattened against the shadows again, scarcely daring 
to breathe. A thickset figure emerged from the doorway 
and hurried away. 

Should he follow the man or should he wait here in 
the shadows? Farrukh Khanoum had said to wait un¬ 
til someone came out. But she had also said to discover 
all he could about the place. He would remain. If he 
could only scale the wall—it was ridiculously low—he 
might lie on its broad top. He felt the surface. It was 
old and crumbling. With his pocketknife he chipped 
a toe hold here and there. Scarcely had he stretched him¬ 
self along the top of the wall when he heard sounds 
far down the street. Unmistakably it was a string of 
donkeys clattering along the cobblestones. Praise be to 
Allah, there was no moon tonight! If anyone should 
find him here, what might not his punishment be for 
spying into another man’s garden! 



192 


Jasmine 


He tried to peer into the window of the tower, but 
the light was too faint to reveal anything. The occupant 
must be very poor indeed to use only a cotton wick in 
a saucer of castor oil, he thought. 

The donkeys were coming nearer. Somewhere a dog 
barked. Mahmud wished with all his heart he was safe 
at home on his own rug. Around the bend they came, 
the thickset fellow and another man urging the animals 
rapidly along. 

At the Camel Tower they stopped. Again a pebble 
struck the window, a few words passed, and the door 
opened. Abbas and still another stranger staggered out 
with arms heavily laden. Silently they filled the saddle¬ 
bags, returning to the tower room again and again. 
Then there was a brief whispered conference and the 
group separated, two of the men returning to the heart 
of the city while Abbas and the bulky stranger quietly 
turned the donkeys in the direction of the outskirts. 

These Mahmud decided to follow at a safe distance. 
Beyond the last garden the little caravan left the high¬ 
way and cut across the wheat fields now swept bare by 
the gleaners. They avoided the bridge and forded the 
shallow stream some distance away. At that point Mah¬ 
mud decided to return to the city. Hastening down the 
Street of The Mulberry Trees, he knocked at his own 
gate. 

“The woman sleeps hard,” he complained, as he 
banged the knocker for the fifth time. 




Again a pebble struck the window . 













Shadowing the Shadower 


195 


Finally a sleepy voice called out, “Who is it?” 

“Open! It is Mahmud.” 

His wife drew the bolt, grumbling as loudly as the 
squeaky door. “Why did you not wait a little longer 
and put the stars to bed?” 

“Be still, woman! Did I not tell you the \hanoum 
received a letter from the Khan today? There was a 
command in it for me. I was set to watch a house.” 

“The tea house, I daresay. And had they sold all the 
tea and taring that you must come home so early?” 

Mahmud yawned his contempt. “For that I will not 
tell you what I saw tonight. ‘Thou may’st shut the door 
of Joy upon that dwelling where thou hearest resound¬ 
ing the scolding voice of a woman.’ ” And with that he 
went off to sleep. 

The late vigil had been too much for him. When he 
reached the garden in the hills next day, the sun was 
already high in the cloudless sky. Even so, Abbas, the 
erstwhile zealous gardener, had not arrived. Farrukh 
listened attentively to Mahmud’s story. 

“Abbas probably will not return,” she surmised. 
“Hereafter you will bring our food from the bazaar. 
Arrange your trips so that you will be in the city when 
the water flows into our garden. Keep it fresh, Mah¬ 
mud, and keep the water fresh in the pool.” 

“Yes, lady,” Mahmud promised. He did not tell her 
that his whole family had moved into the Room of The 
Cascades during her absence. 



196 


Jasmine 


Nightfall had brought a refreshing coolness to the 
breeze when Mustapha Khan rode up the ravine and 
tethered his donkey under a tree. 

His wife and mother greeted him joyfully. “Your 
coming is a blessing,” they declared. 

While he removed the red-brown dust of barren 
plateaus from his face and hands, Mas’udeh set the 
samovar to boiling. Then they listened to his story of 
the marvelous sights he had seen, and when the tea 
was ready, with the bread and cucumbers, Mas’udeh 
happily placed it all before him. 

Mas’udeh soon left them, climbed to the roof, and 
unrolled her mattress for the night. Mustapha Khan 
and Farrukh, however, lingered over the last, long, 
green cucumber to confide to each other all the little 
intimate things that had happened during this, their 
first separation. 

Farrukh related the story of their neighbor’s twin 
babies and whispered her own fear to her husband. 

“Take me with you down to the city, Mustapha, and 
let the mullah write a prayer for the baby and me. I 
will dip it in a glass of water and drink it.” 

“But, Farrukh, it is such an old-fashioned idea! You 
don’t believe that will help, do you?” 

“And how much do you know about babies, Mus¬ 
tapha Khan?” 

“Come, come, Little Jasmine! Let us not disagree 
on this the first night of my return. Keep yourself well 



Shadowing the Shadower 


£97 


and happy and we shall get the best midwife there is in 
the city. Of course, I want everything to go well with 
you and the baby . . . my little son.” 

Then he told her of his conference with the officials 
in Tabriz, the information they had given him which 
indicated that it was an international ring of smugglers 
with whom they had to deal, and not merely a local 
band. 

“And could you read my letter?” her husband then 
asked. “I penned it very carefully and chose simple 
words so that it would be easy to read.” 

“Yes,” Farrukh smiled in recollection. “Some of the 
words gave me much trouble, but I understood most of 
them.” 

The stars high above them were bright and beautiful. 
The night, in its stillness, brought fragrance of flowers. 

“It is peace,” said Mustapha, “peace of the heart.” 

Beside him, Farrukh drew a deep breath. Would the 
peace linger when he knew what she had done? But 
he must know, and at once. 

“Beloved,” she said gently, “news of Abbas awaits 
you, and may you find it in your heart to forgive me, if 
I have done aught that is displeasing to you.” 

“Speak, my little Jasmine,” said Mustapha. 

“When Mahmud brought the letter, it was late after¬ 
noon and Abbas was ready to return to the city. He was 
here in the garden, just as he has been each day since 
your departure. And all at once, the thought came to 



Jasmine 


198 

my mind that were he to hear of your coming, he would 
go straight to his companions. Was it not an opportu¬ 
nity to watch him and discover who they were, I asked 
myself? For so it seemed to me. 

“Calling Mahmud to me, I commanded him to walk 
back with Abbas, confiding in him as they went along 
that the master would be here in three days. Where¬ 
upon, Mahmud was to bid farewell to Abbas at his own 
gate, but was to linger nearby, to watch throughout the 
evening and to follow Abbas should he go forth, as I 
felt certain he would do. 

“It all fell out as I had foreseen. Abbas came forth 
after darkness and Mahmud, following him, discov¬ 
ered that the band has a meeting place in the old Camel 
Tower.” 

Mustapha Khan sat so quietly, as Farrukh continued 
her account of Mahmud’s adventurings, so quietly and 
so still that Farrukh faltered at the last. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” she pleaded. “Oh, forgive 
if what I did was not as you would have wished.” 

At her words, Mustapha Khan drew her close. “For¬ 
give! There is nothing to forgive. You have done that 
which shall be told to the Head of the Department of 
Finance. And—who knows—you may have accom¬ 
plished more here in our garden than even your hus¬ 
band contrived on all his journeyings!” 

For a few brief moments, it seemed to Farrukh she 
was happier than she had ever been before. Then once 



Shadowing the Shadower 


199 


more, through the joyousness, sad memory of her fa¬ 
ther struck with its pain. But she could not speak. That 
must be as the Khan willed. 

Mustapha Khan’s recital next day of his conference 
with the Tabrizis won many a nod of approval from 
the Head of the Department of Finance. But it was 
the story of the Camel Tower, that galvanized him into 
action. 

“At last we will act! Call a droshJ{y,” he shouted. 

And soon he and his young Special Investigator were 
jolting over the streets toward the Camel Tower. Be¬ 
fore the last bend in the street, they left the carriage and 
proceeded on foot. 

At the door of the tower they stopped, tossed a pebble 
against the grillwork, and waited. The door opened 
ever so little and a hoarse voice greeted them. 

“The same voice!” Mustapha Khan thought in star¬ 
tled recognition, and quickly thrust his foot into the 
opening before the door could be slammed shut. Push¬ 
ing the door open, Mustapha and his Chief walked into 
the dim interior. 

“It is but a poor place for fine lords like you.” The 
woman who had spoken to them waved her hand about 
the room at the blackened walls, the tiny windows, the 
rubbish on the broken floor, the pallet of straw against 
the wall. “It is a poor, dismal place, but it seems to 
belong to no one; so I pay no rent. So far the police 
have not molested me.” 



200 


Jasmine 


“So? Then you are a friend of the police? Is that a 
boast or a promise? Or perhaps someone pays to have 
you undisturbed?” 

With a sudden movement the young man caught the 
woman’s wrists and held her firmly. 

“In that rubbish,” he spoke over his shoulder as he 
struggled with his prisoner, “you might find something 
valuable.” 

The official lifted several bits of paper from the filth. 

“It is nothing,” the woman laughed in their faces, 
“only the paper that was around some stockings I bought 
in the bazaar.” She was unable to read and had not 
recognized the necessity for destroying the bits of paper 
which lay scattered on the floor, but she now became 
uneasy as she saw the visitors’ evident interest. 

“People like you carry their purchases in a cotton 
handkerchief,” the Chief reminded her. “White paper 
is supplied only for customers of our class, or for the 
feranghis” He continued to poke about the room, but 
every trace of opium had been removed. Peering 
through a hole broken in the floor, he saw a dark un* 
derground chamber, which seemed to contain only bones 
and filth. The hole in the floor was small; it was im¬ 
probable that anything of value had ever been let down 
through it into the chamber. 

Jolting back to the office, the two men pieced the 
paper together on their knees. It proved to be a roughly 
sketched map of caravan trails which avoided the cities 



Shadowing the Shadower 


201 


and main highways all the way to the Gulf. Turning 
the paper over and fitting it together again, they read a 
list of names of persons in Ispahan, in Busrah, and in 
Bushire. 

“The names they doubtless memorized; the map they 
must have copied on another paper,” the Chief mused. 
“The map from which this was copied must have been 
very large indeed to have had so many charvadar trails 
marked. There is only one place where such a map is 
to be found and the person who has best access to it.. 

“Would be . ..?” 

“The Colonel, who was instrumental in bringing 
about your first arrest. My responsibility now will be 
to prove the authorship of this map and list of names. 
With this new development, I think you should take not 
more than two days to go to your village and then be 
ready on the third day to set out for Ispahan.” 






XVIII 


THE TRUTH COMES OUT 
Much to Farrukh’s disappointment, Mustapha decid¬ 
ed not to take her with him to Tuhistan, after all. It 
must now be a very hurried visit, he said, and on further 
consideration he felt that the long hot ride there and 
back across the mountains in the height of summer 
would be too tiring for her. And Farrukh reluctantly 
agreed with him, though she longed as much as ever to 
see her family once more, especially since she knew that 
the heavy snows later on would prevent her mother’s 


202 


The Truth Comes Out 


203 


crossing the mountain pass to be with her at the time 
her baby was expected. 

“It shall be as you say,” she said. Nor did she give 
any slightest sign of the anxiety still in her heart for her 
father. 

The days of Mustapha Khan’s absence in her home 
village dragged on leaden feet for the girl. What was 
happening there? Was her husband sentencing her be¬ 
loved father to a future of tending sheep? 

Eager as she was for Mustapha’s return, she went to 
greet him with a quickened concern that would not be 
hidden. And Mustapha, especially sensitive in discern¬ 
ing his young wife’s feelings these days, saw it at once. 

“The best of news for you, my Jasmine!” he cried. 
“Abdullah’s innocence has been completely proven. Lis¬ 
ten! It is the story which was awaiting me there, and 
which your father himself and I pieced together. Had 
I known it was in store for us, I would have gone to 
Tuhistan long since. Some way or other, I would most 
certainly have managed the trip.” 

It was a curious tale, this that had awaited him. And 
as she listened to it, Farrukh’s heart grew light and she 
became happier than she had been for a single moment 
since the first unjust arrest. Arriving at her old home 
in Tuhistan, Mustapha told her, he had missed the ser¬ 
vant Rajab, whose place was now taken by a stranger. 
Inquiring, Mustapha had learned from Abdullah that 
there had been a mystery about Rajab. It seemed that 



204 


Jasmine 


the servant had suddenly begun spending money very 
freely, money which could not possibly have come from 
the produce of his little melon patch. 

Too, he had begun loitering long hours at the village 
tea house, buying lavishly of opium, making extravagant 
purchases of arra\ and new clothes for his wife. Though 
Abdullah could not detect him in stealing, he had never¬ 
theless felt that something was radically wrong. For 
where was all that money coming from? So when Rajab 
had taken to reckless opium smoking, the headman had 
made this an excuse to be rid of him. 

“All this,” Mustapha said, “took place about a month 
after my last visit, when I found the vase, you will re¬ 
call. Rajab’s brother had been there that very day of our 
visit—yours and mine—don’t you remember how we 
had ice for our sherbat because he had brought it and 
made a present of it? Well, I clearly remembered how, 
after we had examined the vase and shaken the coins 
from it, Rajab came into the room; then returned on 
some excuse, acting very strangely indeed. The strange¬ 
ness of his actions struck me at the time, yet no suspicion 
entered my mind. Why should it, after all? We had 
hidden the vase, first returning to it all the coins, or at 
least, so we had thought. 

“This is what happened, we are sure. One of those 
coins must have rolled off into a corner of the room, un¬ 
noticed by us. Rajab must have seen it and have picked 
it up, keeping it for himself. He didn’t dare change it 



The Truth Comes Out 


205 


in the village, so he gave it to his brother, the visiting 
ice carrier, to change it for him here in the city. This 
the brother did. 

“How do I know? Through your quickness of mind, 
my Jasmine! You were the one who ferreted out the 
necessary link in the proof. The brother changed the 
coin into silver and bought the donkey harness, which 
you noticed, with his share of the transaction. Then he 
returned the rest to Rajab, who promptly began to spend 
it like water. Abdullah and I checked on dates, and it 
all fits together perfectly. I have no doubt that it all 
happened as we worked it out. And by ill luck, that 
same coin in the bazaar was what set the Colonel on my 
track.” 

Farrukh’s eyes glowed with the depth of her happi¬ 
ness. 

“Nor had I said a word to your father of my unjust 
suspicion, I am happy to say,” Mustapha continued. 
“He is all that you have said and more, an upright and 
an honest, just man.” 

In her relief, the girl burst into tears. 

“Now, my little Jasmine! Lift up your heart. The 
journey to Ispahan is ahead, and of that you may be 
confident for we shall ride thither in a motor car. We 
shall see—yes, Half of the World, my flower. And when 
we return, who knows what important word we shall 
hear?” 

Of them all, only old Shokat was sad over the de- 



206 


Jasmine 


parture. Ispahan, two days’ journey away by machine, 
might be at the end of the earth. Only when Farrukh 
promised to bring her a lucky charm which would keep 
off the Evil Eye did she subside to half-smothered sobs 
and reconcile herself to the faultfinding society of 
Mas’udeh Khanoum. 

Riding down to the city on her white donkey, Far¬ 
rukh went directly to the Street of The Mulberry Trees, 
there to pack two saddlebags and a big embroidered 
dastmal, a handkerchief, with such clothing and other 
accessories as they should need on the journey. Mus- 
tapha Khan in the meantime went to the Garage Ec- 
batana and arranged for two seats in a touring car bound 
for Ispahan. Then he visited the police department to 
secure a permit to travel to Ispahan via Daulatabad, 
Sultanabad, and Dilijan. This jevaz bore only his name. 
Farrukh was not worthy of consideration; she was only 
a woman. 

After a quick trip to the Department of Finance for 
final instructions, retarded somewhat by a bon voyage 
glass of tea, Mustapha Khan brought a droshky to his 
garden to carry his wife speedily to the garage where 
the chauffeur awaited them. Among their luggage were 
two jugs of water. This porous pottery promoted rapid 
evaporation and insured a cool water supply on the road. 

The car set off only an hour after the scheduled start. 
At the Shevarin Gate they were halted by a police-sol¬ 
dier, who demanded to see their travel permits as well 




Farrukh went directly to the Street of the Mulberry Trees 






The Truth Comes Out 


207 


as the chauffeur’s tax receipt and certificate of brake 
inspection. In a day of compulsory military training it 
was necessary to keep close surveillance over all men 
traveling from one city to another. Too easily might a 
young man of means move about from town to town, 
always one jump ahead of the enrollment officer. The 
inspector examined each permit and scrawled his signa¬ 
ture on the back. Then he made a notation in his book: 
two elderly men making a pilgrimage to Qom, a young 
man on official business to Ispahan, and one hjianoum. 

“The kjianoum?” he looked at the men inquiringly. 

“She is my weakness,” Mustapha Khan explained, and 
the party proceeded out of the city along a road shaded 
for a short distance by scraggly mulberry and willow 
trees, which had been frequently cropped for firewood. 
Beyond these lay carefully tended vineyards and then 
far away stretched the dusty haze of limitless sahra, the 
desert. 




XIX 

HALF OF THE WORLD 
Riding in a motor car was such a novel experience for 
Farrukh, who had been accustomed to nothing more 
than a donkey or a carriage, that it was with difficulty 
she kept silent before the strange men in the car. But 
she resolutely held to her mode of behaviour, and when¬ 
ever her husband pointed out something of interest, she 
answered in a low, modest voice. 

“This is a Shah Abbas bridge,” Mustapha Khan ex¬ 
plained, as they forded a small stream. “It was blown 


208 



Half of the World 


20Q 


up during the World War when the Turks and Russians 
were fighting here, and is just now being repaired. The 
high central arch and smaller pointed arch on each side 
make a graceful design. It must have been well built to 
withstand three hundred years of use.” 

At Zemanabad they stopped by a clump of willows, 
where an irrigation stream flowed across the stony road. 
Here a little blind boy brought them a tin of water for 
the car, and after they had given him a coin, they 
watched him tap, tap, tap with his stick to the tea house 
a little distance away. 

It was noon when they reached Jo-Kar, the village of 
The Barley Workers. Tea, of course, they had and hot 
\ibobs, bits of mutton broiled on skewers, folded with 
fresh, green onions in a thin sheet of brown bread. 

One of the pilgrims recalled that he had a friend liv¬ 
ing in the village a farsagh off the highway, and he hired 
a droshky and jogged toward the barren, brown hills in 
the distance. Two hours later he returned, the chauffeur 
leisurely knocked the ashes from his pipe, the passengers 
took their places in the car—glad of the noonday rest— 
and once more they set out on the hot, dusty road. 

In Daulatabad they again showed their travel permits 
to the police-soldier and continued the following day 
toward Sultanabad. For many miles the road climbed 
higher and higher. Now and then they crossed a small 
plain at the edge of which was a watch tower built on 
an outstanding hill. These isolated, round structures 



210 


Jasmine 


were reminiscent of the days when village lords main¬ 
tained watches for distant enemies. Occasionally, a 
guard now was to be seen stationed in one of these 
towers, but it was rare indeed that a traveler needed his 
protection. 

Scattered at regular intervals along the route were 
tiny, brick posthouses, fallen into disuse or converted 
into tea houses. Previous to the World War the Rus¬ 
sians had had a contract to carry the Persian post and 
their engineers had built the postroads and posthouses 
in this locality. 

Adjoining the garage in Sultanabad was a caravan¬ 
serai, where the passengers spent the night. Here the 
pilgrims transferred to another car bound for the sacred 
city of Qom, and other passengers took their places in 
the southbound car. 

At noon the following day they reached Dilijan, 
which lay hot and breathless on the white clay plain. 
The dazzling sunshine nearly blinded Farrukh and she 
was glad for the shelter of a covered balcony at the road¬ 
side tea house where they had their lunch. 

From the balcony she tossed the remains of a melon 
into the thick, white dust of the village street. Two 
beggars, who saw the food strike the ground, gave up 
their everlasting flea hunt for the more exciting struggle 
for food. Simultaneously they dived into the filth, 
snatched at the melon rind, tore it in half, and retired 
against the wall to enjoy the prize. 



Half of the World 


211 


A village of white houses glistened in the vibrating 
haze of the desert a few miles from Dilijan. 

“What is it?” asked one of the passengers in awe. “Is 
it the abode of the jinns?” 

“No, the jinns do not live there,” the chauffeur in¬ 
formed them. “It is just an ordinary village. The clay 
in that village is very white. So the mud bricks also are 
white. And that makes their houses look so ghosdy.” 

All afternoon their route lay over the hard clay desert. 
Mirages glimmered in the distance wherever they 
looked. The jugs of cool water, which they had carried 
so many miles were now appreciated. Occasional clumps 
of thistle bearing fragrant purple pompons, cactus, and 
camel thorn were the only signs of vegetation. The 
delicate pink bloom that had beautified the desert in 
early spring was long since gone and only the dusty, 
gray-green leaves remained. Sometimes even this was 
lacking and the plain looked like one vast, barren 
threshing floor. In those places, the chauffeur found it 
smoother to drive at the side of the road than in the 
actual track itself. 

A veritable oasis in the desert was Mehmi, the little 
village they came upon late in the afternoon. Many tiny 
irrigation streams crossed the road. On either side were 
melon patches and fields of alfalfa. Were they unnat¬ 
urally green, or was it only the contrast to the dusty 
desert behind, which made Mehmi a cool, green para¬ 
dise? 



212 


Jasmine 


Entering the village by way of its one street, they 
were forced to stop for a string of donkeys which crowd¬ 
ed in ahead. The charvadar halted his beasts while an 
opium inspector examined his load of wheat, thrusting 
a long, sharp steel needle into each saddlebag. This the 
inspector withdrew and smelled to detect the presence 
of opium. 

On the last donkey sat a woman, a poor ragged crea¬ 
ture with a deformed foot, holding a samovar in one 
arm and a fat bundle of a baby in the other. Farrukh 
pitied the woman as she watched her and wondered 
whether her husband ever ridiculed the misshapen foot. 

4 ‘That beggar girl with the hare lip, the one in Tuhis- 
tan, said her husband used to beat her unmercifully,” she 
recalled. 

Now the inspector was examining their own luggage 
and giving them permission to continue on their way. 
At the far end of the town they saw newly constructed 
warehouses with marvelous tin roofs, built by the Rus¬ 
sians, the villagers said, to store the various manufac¬ 
tures with which the bazaars were being flooded since 
the signing of the new economic treaty—linen and cot¬ 
ton cloth, soaps and perfume, lacquered wooden articles, 
baskets, and cones of sugar. There too they saw the new 
Russian establishment for manufacturing native cloth. 

The low, rolling hills gradually flattened and disap¬ 
peared. For nearly an hour before reaching Ispahan 
the travelers could see it spread out over a vast, green 



Half of the World 


213 


plain—countless small, round pigeon towers with fancy 
rims; blue domes and shining minarets. 

“How many mosques there must be in Ispahan!” 
Farrukh exclaimed at the sight. 

Higher and grander than the others, one glorious blue 
dome like a giant, opalescent bubble told the location 
of the famous Royal Mosque. 

They entered the city by way of the chief thorough¬ 
fare, the Avenue of The Four Gardens. A boulevard 
two hundred feet wide, it stretched for three-quarters of 
a mile in a straight line from a garden in the country to 
the heart of the city. Along either side and in a wide, 
double line down the center of the boulevard were rows 
of tall, ancient leafy chinars —sycamore or plane trees. 
The double row in the center provided space for park 
benches and refreshment stands. Everywhere were peo¬ 
ple promenading in the gardens. 

“Shall we stop at a caravanserai tonight?” Farrukh 
asked, as she eagerly observed all the marvelous sights 
of this glorious city. 

“Not tonight, nor for many nights,” her husband re¬ 
plied. “The chauffeur will take us to the governor’s 
garden. I have a letter for him from my friend, the 
governor of Hamadan, as well as one from my Chief. 
Irish’allah, we shall be invited to remain in his garden.” 

Late though it was, he presented the letter of intro¬ 
duction to the governor and sat through a long, formal 
serving of tea, while Farrukh made the acquaintance of 



214 


Jasmine 


the women. The upper room of the guest house was 
made ready and a savory meal prepared for the new¬ 
comers. 

Luminous stars winked down upon the travelers as 
they climbed the ladder to their pallets on the roof— 
winked down and seemed to say, “Sleep well tonight. 
Tomorrow you shall see Half of The World.” And, 
indeed, the silhouette of palace walls, of towers and 
domes and minarets against the twinkling sky made 
magic the night and translated Farrukh and Mustapha 
far beyond Ispahan—the Half of The World—into an¬ 
other world of mystery and glamour, while the sleepy 
rusding of sycamore trees and the gurgling of water in 
pebbly garden channels sped the transition. 

For one who was steeped in the literature and history 
of his country and longed to spend every minute of his 
sojourn in sightseeing, it was an ordeal for Mustapha 
Khan to pass by the stately palaces and mosques and 
spend the following day, instead, with the provincial 
Head of Finance, discussing the difficulties of their office 
and comparing clues in their common war against opium 
smugglers. Piece by piece they fitted together the Tabriz 
information, the Hamadan notes, the map and lists and 
identified handwriting from the Camel Tower, the Ispa¬ 
han notes, until the clues fell into a clear pattern and 
revealed a startling fact. 

“Here in Ispahan, right under my nose, is the scat of 
this gang!” ejaculated the local official. “Their chief is 



Halj of the World 


2I 5 


stationed here, but is too clever to leave clues. That is 
what has always baffled us. We have traced petty out¬ 
side workers to a garden in the city, made a few arrests 
that brought us no gain, and found ourselves facing a 
blank wall. The garden is that of a merchant, Mirza 
Roshan, who sells antiques in the bazaar, ghalim\ar cur¬ 
tains, India shawls and such. We have searched his 
garden from one end to the other and found nothing. 
Yet we are certain he is connected with the ring.” 

“Who has the adjoining gardens?” Mustapha Khan 
inquired sharply. 

“There again we are at a loss,” the official replied. 
“On the one side is a very large garden maintained by 
a rich foreigner, a woman from Europe. She is the 
widow of a commercial agent who flourished here a few 
years ago. He died, but the woman stays on here. She 
spends her time with the foreign colony and is a quiet, 
respectable person.” 

“And on the other side?” Mustapha Khan pursued 
his questioning. “In the other garden—” 

“—is bandeh, your slave! But shall I search myself?” 

Mustapha Khan mused. 

“And yet these workers go to the merchant’s garden 
where, you are positive, there is no evidence of their 
activity? Perhaps I, who am unknown here, can dis¬ 
cover the information we want. Shall we lay aside our 
work for the day? See! It is nearly sunset.” 

Without guide or servant, Mustapha Khan set out 



2l6 


Jasmine 


next morning to visit the bazaars. Once more he cast 
a longing glance toward the Ali Kapi, that great palace 
from which a former Shah had watched polo games 
three centuries before; and turned to the only slightly 
less fascinating occupation of visiting the stalls of the 
brass seller, the silversmith, the Russian merchant, and 
all the other merchants and vendors who lined the pas¬ 
sageways with their wares and confused the eye and 
ear with their eager efforts to sell. 

In one section were the brass engravers. Here the 
visitor stopped before one of the tiny shops, where a 
man was fashioning a vase of the metal, shaping it on 
the lathe, turning and returning it to get a fair degree 
of symmetry. On its mate another artisan painstakingly 
engraved a delicate allover pattern of birds and flowers. 
Beside him on the floor sat another engraver decorating 
a tray with pictures of kings in scenes of conquest, and 
spacing the border with medallions of Arabic inscrip¬ 
tion. 

In the darkest corner of the shop stood a worker ap¬ 
plying an oxidized finish to a candlestick, and a little 
boy energetically polishing a bowl on his blue shirt. 

Nearby silversmiths displayed their engraved and 
beaten articles—thimbles and spoons and trays, cigarette 
boxes and vases and bowls. Here Mustapha bought a 
small flat dish of filigree for Farrukh, which would look 
well on her sweetmeat tray at home when she served tea 
to the governor’s lady. 



Half of the World 


217 


A narrow, circular stairway of steep brick steps now 
brought him to the second level, part of it enclosed into 
workshops and part of it open for those who preferred to 
work in the open sunshine. Here were the artists, who 
painted miniatures on bleached camel bone gathered 
from the adjacent desert and carefully sawed into de¬ 
sirable shapes and sizes, to be fashioned into small orna¬ 
mental boxes, book covers, necklace pendants, or spoons. 

Across the way was a small group of skilled workers 
who had developed the allied craft of producing “an¬ 
tique” Persian armor—weirdly decorated helmets, 
shields, mail, and battle-axes. 

Mustapha Khan paused before one man, who ap¬ 
peared to be the master of the group, and pointed to a 
battle-axe which was aging rapidly. “Where do you 
find a market for this out-of-date weapon? And the 
helmets? No one wears helmets any longer.” 

The master laughed heartily. 

“Don’t you really know? The ignorant foreigners 
are my best customers. Every year I send a big shipment 
of ‘antique’ armor to New York and it sells like angoush- 
pech at New Year’s!” 

Mustapha Khan chuckled at the gullibility of for¬ 
eigners and sauntered on, down the steep winding steps, 
back again in the dim passageways, searching for the 
sellers of ghahmkars. When he had finally identified 
the shop of Mirza Roshan, he addressed himself to the 
youth who squatted among the stacks of folded cottons. 



218 


Jasmine 


The boy promptly spread open piece after piece of the 
creamy, handwoven cloth and displayed the graceful, 
intricate designs of blue and yellow, brown and maroon; 
the grotesque and disproportionate pictures of Persian 
kings and ladies, delicate floral designs and the famous 
palm leaf, and the ancient Tree of Life. 

But the customer did not find a piece which pleased 
him. In despair the boy turned to his master, who had 
been sitting on the floor in the corner leisurely sipping 
a glass of tea and paying only indifferent attention to 
the affair. 

“What is it?” Mirza Roshan politely inquired. “What 
kind of ghalim\ar do you wish?” 

To the smallest detail, Mustapha Khan described a 
very old prayer mat which belonged to his mother—the 
slender column on each side surmounted by a graceful, 
pointed arch; medallions of sacred writing from the 
Koran where the forehead and hands touched the mat; 
twining leaves and flowers, and rows of minute, pointed 
palm leaf motifs filling in the rest of the spaces. 

“I know what you want,” the merchant replied 
thoughtfully. “I have such a ghalim\ar in my home. 
It is very old; men do not do the careful work now that 
they did long ago. 

“Have you seen them, a dozen of them sitting together 
with their work spread out on the floor, dipping their 
wood blocks in the dye and gossiping lightly all the time 
they apply the design to the cloth? Only now and then 



Half of the World 


2IQ 


do you find a man who strives for perfection. Even the 
workers who boil the cloth in the chemical solution 
seem not to be able to get results like their forefathers. 
The colors lack the richness of old-time work.” 

“But the Zendah Rud, our great river, master!” the 
lad spoke up to defend the quality of his master’s mer¬ 
chandise. “The river washes the cloth as clean as ever. 
And the same sun sets the colors when the ghalim\ars 
are spread on the flats to dry.” 

“Hush, lad!” the master spoke sharply, vexed that 
he had been deflected from his climax. “Whoever in¬ 
terrupts the conversation of others to make a display of 
his fund of knowledge makes notorious his own stock 
of ignorance.” 

The youth crept to the back of the shop, thankful 
that the reproof had not been accompanied by a stinging 
slap, and the master returned to his sale. 

Mustapha Khan inquired whether it would be possi¬ 
ble to get several ghalim\ars of that kind in Ispahan, 
that he was really an agent for a foreign merchant and 
was collecting outstanding pieces of ghalim\ar and em¬ 
broidery, of silver and pottery and inlay work from all 
the larger cities in the country to send to Europe. 

The merchant bethought himself of a very old urn 
in his home, one that plainly showed Chinese influence 
in the design and glaze, and which had come into his 
family so long ago he knew not by what circumstance. 

Would the gentleman be interested in it? Yes, Mus-^ 



220 


Jasmine 


tapha thought it might please the foreign employer, and 
he would be glad to come to the merchant’s house to 
see it and save him the risk and trouble of carrying the 
heavy vase to the bazaar. 

The drowsy rustling of the sycamore trees failed that 
night to lull the newcomers on the roof of the guest 
house. Farrukh had begged her husband to take her 
to the beautiful blue mosque, the Mosque of The King; 
to the ancient palace near it; and to the Palace of The 
Forty Columns. His explanation for not being able to 
take her and for desiring to gain immediate and inti¬ 
mate access to the merchant’s garden recalled to Farrukh 
an incident which had occurred that morning. 

“The governor’s daughter took me to the bazaar to 
see the curious and beautiful things which are made 
here,” she said. “While we were loitering along the silk 
shops, I met the man and woman we saw at Mehmi. 
The man had a string of donkeys laden with wheat, do 
you remember? And they were so poor and ragged in 
appearance. But today they were dressed in fine clothes 
and looked very prosperous. Is that not strange? Oh, 
yes! I am sure they are the same people, though they 
did not have the baby with them. I recognized the man’s 
face and the woman’s club foot. 

“I was curious to know more about them. So I con¬ 
vinced the governor’s daughter that we should follow 
them. Before you go to see the merchant tomorrow, I 
wish you would let me show you their garden.” 




XX 

A LEAP IN THE DARK 

Strangely coincident with his own direction was the 
course Farrukh pointed out to her husband next morn¬ 
ing. When she stopped before a great gate, a massive 
panel of solid walnut, Mustapha Khan identified it 
unmistakably as that of the merchant Roshan. 

“But that is no new discovery,” he lamented. “The 
Chief of Finance here tells me they have traced opera¬ 
tives to this garden many times, but never have they 
found any incriminating evidence during their secret 
searches.” 


221 





222 


Jasmine 


His ear caught the light patter of someone shuffling 
over the cobblestones just around the bend of the walled 
street. Discreetly he moved on, Farrukh a few steps 
behind. A woman, balancing on her head a broad tray 
piled high with handspun wool, hurried past on her 
way to one of the great rug weaving rooms of the city. 
Farther down the street, but still within sight of the 
merchant’s door, Mustapha Khan stopped. 

“While I tarry with the Chief of Finance a few min¬ 
utes, you watch that gate and tell me whether anyone 
enters the merchant’s garden.” It was unwise to leave 
his young wife loitering in the street. His mother would 
reprove him for such laxity, but he could see no other 
way. It had to be. 

In the official’s garden around the next bend, he held 
close consultation. Then he came out, after reassuring 
himself that no one was passing to notice his presence, 
spoke a word to Farrukh, waited until she was out of 
sight, and then knocked at the gate. 

“Who is it?” came the quick, guarded query. 

“A customer to see your master about his antique 
vase.” 

He was expected. The gate was opened without fur¬ 
ther delay and he was escorted to the men’s quarters. 
On the flower-bordered path he met a foreign woman 
who was just leaving the garden. At the verandah he 
deftly removed his slippers and entered the door where 
the merchant stood to greet him. 



A Leap in the Dark 


223 


Host and guest exchanged polite salutations and en¬ 
tered the room. Mustapha Khan glanced quickly about. 
At each end a low doorway hung with draperies opened 
into adjoining rooms. The wall opposite the entrance 
was arched with many niches that held exquisite bits 
of pottery. On the flat wall spaces were ghalim\ar treas¬ 
ures—old, old designs on prayer mats so fragile it would 
have been almost sacrilege to spread them on the ground 
and prostrate oneself upon them in prayer. 

The merchant followed his glance sharply, but was 
thrown off his guard by the involuntary smile of appre¬ 
ciation and pleasure which lit up his guest’s face. 

“You are indeed a connoisseur to see any worth in 
my few, poor baubles. If any of them please you, they 
are a present to you,” Mirza Roshan waved his hand 
vaguely about the room. 

“Your kindness is very great,” Mustapha Khan po¬ 
litely assured him, and seated himself on the carpet to 
await the tea and water pipes, which servants were 
bringing into the room. 

To the accompaniment of the qalian, which gurgled 
noisily and sometimes almost chuckled as he puffed it, 
Mustapha Khan described as best he could from casual 
observation the rare objects he pretended to have assem¬ 
bled from all parts of Persia for his exacting master. 

“With your permission,” the merchant spoke up, “I 
will bring out the vase which I mentioned yesterday. It 
is in the next room.” 



224 


Jasmine 


As he arose from the floor, a commotion of shrieking 
and screaming at the foot of the stairs drew both men 
to the window. A ragged beggar stood trembling be¬ 
fore a cluster of servants, pinioned in the arms of the 
brawny gatekeeper. On the cobblestones, where he had 
dropped them, lay Mustapha Khan’s own shoes. 

Mirza Roshan was aghast. 

“My face is black!” he exclaimed in painful embar¬ 
rassment. “You are a guest in my house, and my ser¬ 
vants allow a thief to sneak in and steal your shoes!” 

“May I be your sacrifice, master, but how did he get 
in?” the gatekeeper asked, fearful of having failed in 
his duty. “I was at the gate all the time.” 

“How did he get in? That is your business to dis¬ 
cover.” The master spoke harshly. “Excuse me for a 
moment,” he altered his voice slightly as he spoke to the 
guest, and hurried down the steep steps to call a police¬ 
man for the thief. But the thief twisted and jerked, 
wrenched himself loose, and darted into one of the out¬ 
buildings, Mirza Roshan and the servants close on his 
heels. 

Mustapha Khan looked about him swiftly, listening 
intently at each doorway. Mirza Roshan had started to¬ 
ward the right hand doorway; he would take the other. 
He lifted the drapery. 

The room was empty, save for carpets and cushions— 
probably a sleeping room. He pushed back more dra¬ 
peries and found himself in a small room that was os- 




Caught in a trap he seemed to be 















A Leap in the Dark 


227 


tensibly furnished for cooking. A built-in Russian stove 
occupied one side. On the other was a bin of camel 
thorn twigs and charcoal. The deep wall niche was 
filled with pots and kettles. But the walls of the room 
showed no trace of smoke and the kettles were dusty. 

If the room was not used for cooking, why—why—? 
But the time for conjecture was past. A knock at the 
street gate, the voice of the policeman issuing orders, 
footsteps on the stone stairs, and Mirza Roshan was 
calling his name! Mustapha Khan had no time to re¬ 
turn to the reception room. He had barely a moment 
to stride through a small doorway in a far corner of 
the room into a darkened passageway. Dimly he dis¬ 
cerned stairs. He felt his way to the bottom, thankful 
that he was still in stocking feet, and stood there panting 
as he heard Mirza Roshan s voice coming nearer. 

Caught in a trap he seemed to be, for he now realized 
that he was in one of those darkened rooms where men 
sometimes drank their tea in summer, a room whose 
only entrance was the concealed stairway and whose 
only exit was a tiny, enclosed courtyard. He could not 
return the way he had come. He could not go into the 
courtyard, for the windows of the room above com¬ 
manded it fully. He stood there, panting like a trapped 
animal. Then he saw a tiny door in the wall of the 
courtyard close by the doorway of the darkened cham¬ 
ber. It was his only chance of escape. Whether Mirza 
Roshan might be looking out the window into the court- 



228 


Jasmine 


yard below or whether his glance might be directed 
elsewhere at the moment, Mustapha Khan could not 
know. He only knew that he got the door open, 
squeezed himself through the small opening, and closed 
it again before anyone called out to him. 

But where was he? The adventurer considered. Had 
he escaped to safety or into greater danger? Then he 
remembered the official’s embarrassed remark. On one 
side of the merchant’s garden dwelt the official himself; 
and on the other, the rich foreign woman. 

Very well! If he was in the official’s garden, he was 
safe; if he was in that other, then he must use his wits. 
Nervously he thrust his hands into his pockets and 
desperately formulated one explanation after another 
for his presence here. His fingers caught at a tiny trinket 
he had purchased the previous day for his wife. 

That a communicating doorway existed between the 
gardens of the suspected merchant and the customs offi¬ 
cial was most unlikely. That a connection existed be¬ 
tween the merchant and the foreign woman was barely 
possible. And yet, he recalled, it was a foreign woman 
—the foreign woman?—he had met on the pathway in 
the merchant’s garden. If her husband was dead, why 
did she stay on in a foreign land? The motive which 
would compel her to remain must be powerful indeed. 

Blinking like an owl, Mustapha Khan stood there in 
the dazzling sunlight of a beautiful garden. No one 
was in sight, except a fat, naked baby, obviously a ser- 



A Leap in the Dark 


229 


vant’s child, who dabbled at the water in a shimmering 
pool. Seeing the stranger, he cried out and toddled 
down the path toward the gatehouse. The child’s cry 
of fear brought both parents running. 

The gatekeeper stopped abruptly. 

“Who are you? Give the pass!” 

The password! So that was it! Mustapha Khan 
thought rapidly. The foreign woman was involved in 
the merchant’s private activities and her garden was 
closely guarded. 

The young man spoke boldly, though his heart raced 
like a trip hammer. 

“The password!” he repeated disdainfully. “I use no 
password; my face is my pass. You will do well to 
recognize me next time. I am the chief. I come here 
seldom, but you should know me. Such insolence from 
you another time and you shall ‘eat the sticks.’ ” 

A sudden, sharp rap on the gate followed the last 
word. The servant questioned the one who knocked. 
It was the mistress. He opened the gate. The woman 
who entered was the one whom Mustapha Khan had 
met on the merchant’s garden path. 

“And what have we here?” she asked coldly. 

Before the gatekeeper could reply, Mustapha Khan 
addressed her in his best French. 

“I am called Mustapha. I am a peddler. I carry trin¬ 
kets from town to town for those who are interested in 
such things. I was told Madame might be interested in 




230 


Jasmine 


a certain little curio I have. Would you like to see? 
He smiled invitingly. 

“What is it?” the woman asked curiously, surprised 
by the man’s unexpected use of the foreign tongue. 

“A scarab carved in jade,” he explained, drawing the 
object from his pocket and laying it in the palm of her 
hand. 

The woman glanced at the trifle. It was a mediocre 
piece of work. Her own collection included several 
specimens that were worthy of a museum setting. She 
tightened her lips scornfully. 

“If that is the sort of thing you peddle, don’t come 
here to bother me. My gatekeeper will not admit you 
again. Now, be off!” 

Fearing the gatekeeper’s reference to his mysterious 
entry, Mustapha Khan himself pulled open the gate and 
fled, still in his stocking feet, into the street. In the 
broad thoroughfare he quickly picked up a carriage. 

“To the Department of Finance,” he told the driver. 
“And an extra kjan for speed.” 

The carriage drew up shortly before an open gate, 
where the national flag indicated a government office. 

The conference which followed brought together all 
those persons who were employed both officially and 
privately by the bureau of internal revenue. That Mirza 
Roshan’s garden was but an anteroom to the real smug¬ 
gling headquarters, and that the foreign woman was 
intimately associated with the leaders, were their unani- 



A Leap in the Dark 


231 


mous conclusions. Together they planned to the small¬ 
est detail a surprise attack on the heretofore unsuspected 
garden. 

With the hour fixed, and the part each one was to 
play carefully outlined, the group were about to disband 
when Mustapha Khan, who had been sitting quietly by 
without taking part in the plans, spoke. 

“May I be your sacrifice, but this woman is a feranghi 
and subject to a foreign government. Would it not be 
wise to procure from Teheran a special warrant signed 
jointly by the Chief of Police and her own consular 
agent?” 

The chief bit his lip in vexation. 

“You speak truly,” he said. “The old law has been 
set aside, but without such permission we might com¬ 
plicate matters and defeat our purpose. Yet delay also 
might be disastrous. If the woman were to become sus¬ 
picious—” He pondered a moment. 

“You, Abdullah Khan! You will go to Teheran on 
the airplane which leaves at noon. Get that signature 
if you have to work all night, and return on tomorrow s 
airplane. Then we shall be ready to search the place by 
mid-afternoon tomorrow. 

“Akbar Khan, you will arrange with our pseudo¬ 
beggar to take up a position near the gate and watch all 
activities at the feranghi s garden. 

“And you, Mustapha Khan—your strength is in hid¬ 
ing. Return to the governor’s garden and stay there, 



£32 


Jasmine 


even within the guest house itself, until I bid you come 
forth. What you have accomplished today must not be 
undone by carelessly showing your face in public. The 
woman might become suspicious; Mirza Roshan cer¬ 
tainly must be, wondering why you disappeared so pre¬ 
cipitately. 

“Ah, that reminds me! The poor fellow who tried 
to steal your shoes will have to stay in jail until after 
the search tomorrow. I dare not send a note of explana¬ 
tion yet. Somewhere in the department there might be 
a clacking tongue.” 

He who had been dispatched to Teheran hastened to 
the Ispahan airport and boarded the airplane. When 
it returned next day at noon and landed on the stony 
field marked by four stone pillars, the Chief of Finance 
was there to receive the warrant personally and begin 
the search without delay. 

As he and his young aide turned to leave the field, 
they saw a motor car speeding over the sandy road to¬ 
ward the airport. From curiosity alone they lingered 
to watch the car stop and two passengers alight. The 
man carried two small pieces of luggage for a smartly 
dressed woman. Together they walked to the airplane 
and the woman climbed inside with her two bags. The 
airplane taxied down the field and was soaring into the 
blue before the Chief suddenly came to his senses. 

“By the Beard of the Prophet!” he roared. “That 
woman was none other than the feranghi we’re after! 



A Leap in the Dark 


£33 


Those foreigners look so much alike I failed to recognize 
her at first. 

“While we sit around waiting for warrants, she rolls 
up her tent and flees. As the poet says, ‘The sincere 
publican has proceeded on foot; the slothful Pharisee 
is mounted and gone to sleep.’ We thought the airplane 
would be fast enough for us, but she has beaten us. And 
when she lands, it will be in Baghdad and we can have 
no jurisdiction over her. 

“We’ll go ahead and search the garden, but I daresay 
everything has been removed. Mirza Roshan must have 
communicated his suspicion to her. But what will she 
do in Baghdad? Where will she go from there? The 
least—and the most—we can do is to have our agents 
shadow her.” 

So the baffled official returned to his desk to prepare a 
code message for one Hakim, who dwelt in Baghdad 
and followed at times the profession of miracle doctor, 
dervish, or boatman on the Tigris—professions which 
brought him into contact with sailors at the gulf, trav¬ 
elers in caravanserais, and persons who dealt in the traf¬ 
fic of opium and other drugs. 








XXI 

NEWSPAPER NOTES 

The necessity for secrecy and seclusion being now 
removed, Mustapha Khan was able to go abroad freely 
and spend some time with Farrukh enjoying the many 
sights of the city. 

There was much they wished to see; the old seven¬ 
teenth century palace of Ali Kapi, with its many beau¬ 
tiful mural paintings; the great gate of the Royal School 
of Theology, the Madrasseh-i-Shah Husein, which is 
perhaps the finest example of the Persian art of tile 


234 




















Newspaper Notes 


£35 


mosaic; the Royal Mosque, Masjid-i-Skah, with its state¬ 
ly minarets and vast blue dome, of perfect proportions, 
flashing like a jewel in the sunlight. These and many 
other places they visited, but all too soon the sight-seeing 
was ended and the hour of departure had come. Far- 
rukh, who would gladly have spent another week at 
least in this beautiful city where all was new and won¬ 
derful to her eager eyes, regretfully closed the saddle¬ 
bags, and a servant carried them to the car which waited 
in the street. 

Servants and members of the governor’s family stood 
about the gateway to speed the departing guests. Beg¬ 
gars in the street and curious passersby stopped to watch 
the excitement. Mustapha and Farrukh climbed over 
the door, which was held shut by luggage on the run¬ 
ning board, and tumbled into the back seat, while two 
other passengers found seats in the same unceremonious 
manner. The chauffeur settled himself in place and 
started the motor. A chorus of farewells arose from the 
crowd. 

“May you be blessed in the journey!” 

“You came well!” 

“May God’s protection go with you!” 

Suddenly a raucous sneeze burst from someone in 
the crowd. 

“Have patience!” one of the passengers urgently 
cried, as he laid his hand on the chauffeur’s arm. “Let 
us wait. It is an ill omen, that one sneeze.” 



Jasmine 


236 

“Yes, yes!” Another corroborated the assertion. “My 
grandmother always warned us never to proceed with 
whatever we might be doing if someone sneezed once 
in our presence.” 

The embarrassed one sniffed and snorted and strug¬ 
gled with spasmodic breath. At last he accommodated 
the travelers and relieved himself of a second volcanic 
sneeze. 

The spell was broken. 

“Hosh bi hallatl Good for you!” his neighbor yelled 
and slapped the man gleefully on the back. The crowd 
burst into laughter, relieved that evil had been averted. 

At last the travelers were off, moving slowly through 
the streets, for already the thoroughfares were crowded 
with camel caravans and strings of donkeys bringing 
their bales of rugs and bags of wheat to the great cara¬ 
vanserais. 

Where the way emerged through a broad gateway to 
the open road, the chauffeur stopped the car. A police- 
soldier stepped up and took the chauffeur’s card and the 
travel permits of all the men passengers. 

“Whose is she?” he nodded inquiringly toward the 
veiled woman in the back seat. 

“She is my weakness,” Mustapha Khan replied mat- 
ter-of-factly. 

The officer took the credentials and went inside his 
little shelter, painstakingly read the name, father’s name, 
place of residence, of each passenger; scrawled an indeli- 



Newspaper Notes 


237 


ble signature on the back of each permit and returned 
the papers to the occupants of the car. 

Now they were on the open road. For a few miles 
they passed orchards already heavy with fruit. Along 
the numerous irrigation streams they saw rows of scrub¬ 
by willows, whose tops had been cropped for firewood. 
Looking back, they beheld Ispahan only as a waving 
mass of gray-green, studded here and there with gleam¬ 
ing turquoise domes. 

Then the desert stretched monotonously before them, 
glittering white and hot. Mustapha Khan pulled from 
his pocket a folded newspaper which a messenger had 
hurriedly given him at the governor’s gate. It was the 
Baghdad Times, printed on one side in English and on 
the other in Arabic. Mustapha Khan read it with in¬ 
terest—all the happenings in the Iraq government, busi¬ 
ness conditions, financial news, recent European arrivals 
via the desert transport, social events in the foreign and 
official circles, items from Persia and India and even a 
few from Europe, and then one small note which the 
editor admitted was pure rumor, but interesting never¬ 
theless. 

“It is rumored,” the lines ran, “that a mysterious ship 
lies somewhere in the Persian Gulf waiting for a large 
consignment of smuggled opium. Its illicit cargo is sup¬ 
posedly destined for international markets.” 

So brief and yet fraught with what significance! 

Mustapha Khan read the lines again, noted the date 



238 


Jasmine 


of the paper, calculated days and miles and rate of 
travel over caravan trails to the gulf. This ship, then, 
was the destination of the Hamadan consignment! But 
had it reached its destination without interference? 
What about the men at Bushire? Had they been vigi¬ 
lant? Or, had they closed their eyes and lined their 
pockets? And the foreign woman now safe in Baghdad, 
had she seen the newspaper story and had she laughed 
over her success? 

Aware of his companion’s intent look, he relaxed his 
grip on the paper, smiled, and turned to the English 
print, where he slowly translated phrase by phrase the 
information he had been reading on the reverse side. 

“May I be your sacrifice,” the stranger apologized po¬ 
litely. “I know the saying: Never ask a traveler his 
destination, or a person his business, or anyone his reli¬ 
gion. But I could not help noticing your excitement. 
I presume that you were reading what I glimpsed in 
your paper—about the marvelous excavations which are 
being conducted at Persepolis. I have just come from 
there and I am overwhelmed by it.” 

“Truly?” Mustapha Khan remarked in surprise. As 
a schoolboy he had read of the ruins of Persepolis and 
was familiar with the legend told in every household of 
how Iskandar Rumi—Alexander the Great—had burned 
the palace there. But the few people who had ventured 
from the city of Shiraz to the deserted Persepolis in 
recent years had come back with disappointing accounts 



Newspaper Notes 


£39 


of broken pillars and stones half buried under the shift¬ 
ing sands of the desert. 

“What have the excavators found?” he asked. 

“Such treasures they have uncovered,” the man de¬ 
clared, “as have been found nowhere else in this part 
of the world.” 

Mustapha Khan settled himself comfortably to hear 
the story of the traveler from Persepolis. 








XXII 

THE DERVISH’S TALE 

Mirages, hot winds, and clouds of dust accompanied 
the travelers to Sultanabad. Still, the journey was not 
uncomfortable. But beyond Sultanabad the touring car 
went no further. Engine trouble developed a short dis¬ 
tance outside the city. At the garage it was discovered 
that a vital part was broken and that two days would 
be required to make the repair. So, the following morn¬ 
ing, Mustapha Khan visited first one caravanserai and 


240 



The Dervish's Tale 


241 


garage after another in search of a car or truck which 
would take two more passengers. 

It was nearly noon when they finally set out in an 
open truck—the chauffeur and Mustapha Khan in the 
seat; a road guard on the running board trying to keep 
his balance and hold his rifle at the same time; a youth¬ 
ful mechanic on the roof; and ten passengers, including 
Farrukh, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the truck 
in intimate company with two bales of rugs, a sack of 
mail, two water jugs tied to the side, and several melons 
which persisted in bouncing against their feet at the 
imminent risk of bursting open with each impact. 

Frequent stops retarded their progress until the set¬ 
ting sun cast its blinding rays full in their faces as at 
last they drove into Daulatabad, still sixty-five miles 
from Hamadan. 

Several of the passengers had reached their destina¬ 
tion and started off down the dusty street; others sought 
the nearest caravanserai; Mustapha Khan and Farrukh 
made their way across the square toward the hotel, a 
crumbling, mud-walled structure little more inviting 
than the caravanserai. 

Built flush with the street and opening inward on a 
straggling garden in the rear, the building required a 
narrow passageway through its center to reach the en¬ 
trance. Before Mustapha Khan and his wife could reach 
this passage, they found their way blocked by a crowd 
of men and boys. 



242 


Jasmine 


“What is it?” Farrukh asked quickly, as she held her 
veil closely over her face. 

Clad in a ragged, brown robe with only a frayed rope 
for a girdle, a barefooted dervish was gesticulating to 
the crowd. His long, gray hair and beard were tinged 
at the ends with henna, sure evidence that his last bath 
had been in the far distant past. He held on one arm 
an ancient battle-axe, the symbol of his profession, and 
a chain suspended from which was an iron, boat-shaped 
dish for holding alms. 

“Obey those above you. Give alms to the needy. Look 
not with envy upon the property of others, for that is a 
sin.” Thus was he preaching to the people. 

“Come, come! O, holy man!” cried one of his hear¬ 
ers. “Give us a story.” 

“A story! a story! ” the crowd took up the words. 

The dervish looked over the group, calculated its fi¬ 
nancial worth, twisted the chains of his alms-gatherer, 
and began: 

“Many years ago, beyond the memory of you who 
sit at my feet, there dwelt in this city a man whose 
riches were as boundless as the stones of the field. Where 
this inn now stands, he built his mansion three stories 
high. The garden surrounding it was as beautiful as 
the gardens of Paradise. All day the water splashed 
from fountains and cascades into streams that fed a 
large pool in the center of the garden. From the highest 
balconies beautiful women dived into this pool and 



The Dervish’s Tale 


243 


swam about, gracefully disporting themselves on long 
summer days. 

“Now the owner of all this splendor already had three 
wives, but he desired to take another—an unknown 
young girl about whose great beauty he had heard vague 
rumors. Two rug sellers had come to him with rugs 
and told of a wondrous beauty whose father had taken 
a garden outside the city for the summer. 

“The rich lord sent one of the rug sellers as a go- 
between to the father with his offer of marriage and a 
request to know his terms. The newcomer, who had 
sent the rug sellers—his own agents—to the lord, had 
been waiting for this overture and was ready for the in¬ 
terview. 

“‘What!’ he said, feigning great surprise. ‘Shall I 
give my daughter to a man about whom I know noth¬ 
ing? What is his family? His wealth? My child is not 
a village girl.’ And the go-between returned to his 
other client with word that the father was unwilling to 
give up his daughter, that he would state no conditions 
whatsoever. 

“The lord, who was the biggest landowner of the 
province and whose family had great prestige, was en¬ 
raged at this affront, and vowed that he would have the 
girl and have her, moreover, only as a concubine. But 
for weeks his schemings met with no success. The sum¬ 
mer was nearly gone when the father finally agreed to 
discuss terms. 



244 


Jasmine 


“The distance between his garden and the lord’s (it 
is that long, winding road which leads from this inn 
to yonder park on the hillside) must be carpeted with 
fine rugs, said the father. 

“ ‘Let the trees on each side of the path leading from 
the street gate to the lord’s house be decked with rubies, 
pearls, and emeralds.’ Those were his very words. ‘My 
daughter will come over the carpeted path to her new 
home unattended at the hour before dawn. 

“ ‘And let the street gate be left unfastened, that no 
one may see her until after she has entered the women’s 
quarters.’ 

“The bridegroom was aghast at these unheard-of con¬ 
ditions. But his go-between, the secret agent of the new¬ 
comer, slyly reminded him of the beauty and youthful¬ 
ness of the bride. So, with much grumbling, he pre¬ 
pared to fulfill the conditions of the contract. 

“A distance of two miles was covered with fine rugs, 
though the lord saw to it that they were narrow run¬ 
ners. The trees on each side of the garden path were 
decked with precious jewels. That night the lord lay 
awake, listening to the nightingale and thinking with 
ecstasy of his bride. The appointed hour drew near.” 

Here the dervish paused. Cunningly he untangled 
the chains of his alms vessel and passed among the 
crowd. 

“Alms!” he begged. “Give me of your bounty. If 
you like my story and would hear what happened to 



The Dervish’s Tale 


245 


the beautiful bride, then give me a coin, one of those 
coins that sag in your girdle. I am but a poor dervish, 
your slave, your sacrifice. Thank you, good man! Your 
kindness is very great. May you have a thousand years!” 

And so he gathered in the coins, only a few and of 
small value. But they were sufficient for his needs. 

“Go on! Continue!” the crowd cried, impatient for 
the rest of the story. 

“The hour came and went,” the dervish picked up 
the thread of his story. With the coins already in his 
vessel he made short work of the concluding words. 

“Dawn brightened the eastern sky, but it brought a 
shadow to the heart of the bridegroom. For the trees 
had been stripped of their gems, the valuable rugs had 
disappeared, and the father of the fictitious bride and 
his two confederates had secretly left the city several 
hours earlier. Their whereabouts were so successfully 
concealed that neither the men nor the stolen goods 
were ever found.” 

A hearty laugh went up from the listeners, whose 
sympathies were none too great even for the rich lords 
of their own day. Then they began to clamor for for¬ 
tune telling, bargaining for a foretelling at the lowest 
possible price. 

Mustapha Khan and Farrukh had stood on the edge 
of the group listening to the story. At this point they 
pushed through the crowd toward the door. 

“Make way, holy man! You are obstructing the path 



246 


Jasmine 


of those who would go within, those who have listened 
long enough to your words.” 

The dervish looked Mustapha Khan full in the face 
and calmly replied, “If the bat does not relish the com¬ 
pany of the sun, the all-current brilliancy of that lumi¬ 
nary can suffer no diminution.” 

“Ho! ho!” chuckled the spectators, for here was an¬ 
other rich lord, being worsted by a simple fellow like 
themselves. 

“Hold your tongue, fool,” Mustapha Khan retorted, 
nettled by the man’s impudence. From one of his equals, 
he would have received the quotation with an appre¬ 
ciative laugh, but not from one so lowly. 

As he entered the half open door, he addressed him¬ 
self once more to the dervish. 

“It is also written: The ignorant man resembles the 
drum of the warrior, being full of noise, and an empty 
babbler.” 

Flat tires, dirty gasoline, engine trouble that passed 
all understanding—“Ah, Mustapha, will we ever again 
see The Street of The Mulberry Trees?” sighed the 
weary Farrukh that night in their small hotel. 

“Patience, my Jasmine! Patience, much patience. 
And then, at length, our reward.” 

And with patience, much patience, so it was. The 
next night Farrukh was home again in her own garden. 
She reveled in its quiet beauty. Even the tart and critical 
remarks of her mother-in-law seemed incidental and 



The Dervish’s Tale 


247 


unimportant. As for Shokat, not a moment of that 
first morning would she leave her mistress; she must 
braid her hair; arrange her veil; bring her tea and 
sweets; be constantly in her presence. 

“Ah, my Shokat,” Farrukh exclaimed again and 
again, “I am indeed home at last, in my own home, 
where my baby shall be born, with you to look after 
him.” 

Shokat beamed. 

“You—and Mas’udeh Khanoum,” Farrukh added, 
mischievously. 

The old family servant snorted. “That one! Noth¬ 
ing that I do can please her. I cannot sweep her rugs 
clean enough; I cannot grind the salt fine enough; I 
talk too loud. She will never permit me to touch the 
little one, if she has her way.” 

“It will be my baby, not hers,” said Farrukh. “And 
do not forget the charm I brought you, my Shokat. Is 
it not to keep off the Evil Eye? And now be on your 
way. Tea and sweetmeats and melon seeds we must 
have in plenty today, for the neighbors will soon be here 
to offer felicitations on my safe return from the long 
journey.” 

Indeed, the noon meal was scarcely finished before 
the clacking of the gate knocker announced the arrival 
of callers. As each guest entered the house, she presented 
Farrukh with a large cone of sugar wrapped in blue 
paper—the customary gift for a returned traveler. While 



248 


Jasmine 


the water pipe was passed around the circle, first one 
woman smoking it and then the next, Farrukh told 
them of the marvels of the great city of Ispahan, and 
Shokat moved among them constantly offering tea and 
sweets and busy-work. Later, Farrukh would return the 
calls and present to each woman individually a journey 
souvenir of value proportionate to her station in society. 

When Mustapha Khan returned at sunset, after a day 
spent in the Department of Finance, he brought good 
news. From Ispahan had come to his chief a copy of 
the report that was being sent to the Minister of Finance 
at Teheran, and in it Mustapha Khan was mentioned 
favorably and given full credit for the delicate piece of 
work he had accomplished in that city. No indication 
was given in the report, however, of the way in which 
the department expected to make ultimate use of that 
information. 

“If that ship in the gulf gets away with its cargo,” he 
said dejectedly, “our work will be for naught. Still, my 
commendation in this report will do much to remove 
the stigma that fell on my name by those arrests last 
spring. And the Chief can no longer say I have eyes 
only for my law books.” 

That evening they sat on the carpeted bench in the 
garden and made plans for returning to the summer 
garden for another month. The air was heavy with the 
scent of jasmine and petunia. Faint splashing sounds 
from the Room of The Cascades reached their ears. The 



The Dervish's Tale 


249 


poplars whispered in the soft breeze, recalling to them 
the more delightful breezes of their house in the hills. 
Quiet happiness, with but a single passing thought to 
mar its perfection. 

Gently Farrukh touched her husband. “Suppose,” 
she whispered timidly, “the little one is not a man-child, 
after all?” 

Mustapha Khan placed his hand over hers. “Great 
happiness will be mine when the little one arrives,” he 
said. “Happiness and much joy.” 




XXIII 

WISHES FULFILLED 


Shokat leaned over the cradle, scarcely touching the 
bright blue strips of iron that fashioned it. 

“Mashallahl What an ugly babe!” she whispered 
softly, the admiration in her eyes and the pride in her 
voice belying the words she spoke. 

Farrukh’s baby, bound tightly in fine white swad¬ 
dling clothes, lay sound asleep in the cradle, its hair as 
black and its features as fine as those of any other child 
in the realm. For Shokat to have exclaimed over the 


Wishes Fulfilled 


251 

beauty of this child would have invited disaster. It 
would have called the old shataris attention to the child; 
the Evil Eye would surely have fallen on it. But no one 
would want, or even notice, an ugly child; it was much 
safer to pretend that the new baby was an ugly mite. 

Six days had passed since the baby’s arrival. During 
those six days and for four more days to come, friends 
watched the baby night and day so that no jinn would 
enter its body. 

On the eve of the seventh day all preparations were 
complete for the celebration to which friends and neigh¬ 
bors had been specially invited. 

Shokat lifted the baby from the blue cradle and held 
it across her lap as she sat on the floor. For six days 
its arms had been bound down to its sides. Now the 
\ulfat, newly promoted to nurse, unwound the big tri¬ 
angles of white cloth which had bound the infant. 
Winding the babe again in fresh white cloths, she left 
its arms free but held the rest of its body firm in the 
many layers of cloth. 

Farrukh held up a little round cap. The nurse placed 
a three-cornered scarf on the baby’s head and then fitted 
the little cap over it. Then Farrukh crossed the ends of 
the scarf under the baby’s chin and brought them up to 
the top of the cap and made a perky knot. 

“Now the little one is ready for visitors,” Farrukh 
smiled happily as she took her babe in her arms. 

“Not yet, \hanoum!” old Shokat fumbled in her 



252 


Jasmine 


clothes as she spoke. “One thing more our little one 
must have!” she exclaimed, as she fastened a tiny blue 
bead in a lock of the child’s long, black hair and pulled 
the charm down over its forehead. 

“The Evil Eye shall not have a chance to harm this 
little one! ” 

The early arrival of guests at the gate put an end to 
the conversation. 

“Hurry, hurry, nurse! Carry away these garments 
and bring in the water pipe and the tea and little cakes. 
The guests are arriving.” 

Farrukh laid the baby on a pillow on the floor beside 
her, smoothed the plaits of her short skirt, adjusted her 
fine white veil, and waited for the guests. 

“Salaam-n-aleikum!” the women greeted her cordial¬ 
ly, as they removed their street veils and settled them¬ 
selves on the floor. They sat back on their heels, with 
their feet crossed under them, and leaned against the 
big wall cushions. 

“We come to wish the steps of the new one blessed¬ 
ness.” 

“And is it true that the child is a girl? How unfor¬ 
tunate ! ” 

“Never mind! The next one will be a boy.” 

The guests crowded into the room until Shokat de¬ 
spaired of serving the little cakes and the idle-time seeds 
without stepping on someone’s tea glass. 

“Let me hold the little one!” an old grandmother 



Wishes Fulfilled 


253 

cackled. “I had twenty babies myself and they all died 
but three. Most of them were winter babies. They 
smother under the kurseh or freeze outside it. You’ll 
have a hard time with this one.” 

She picked up the bundle of warm, sweet babyhood 
and sang to it in a strong minor key: 

“Bacheh, Bacheh, Bar-i-Bacheh, 

Allah nigah dar-i-Bacheh, 

Nana bu/{liarad az bar-i-Bacheh, 

Baba benishinad sayayeh Bacheh. 

“Baby, Baby, Fruit of the Baby, 

God the guardian of the baby, 

Grandmother eats the fruit of the baby, 
Grandfather sits in the shadow of the baby.” 

“Name the little one Maluk, Glory of The Kingdom,” 
she concluded. Then she handed the baby to the woman 
sitting nearest her. 

“Name the little one Azizeh, Beloved,” the second 
singer suggested. 

“Baby, Baby, Fruit of the baby . . .” each woman in 
turn held the child and recited the jingle. By the time 
it had traveled around the circle, the baby was crying 
lustily. Shokat, in the new role of nurse, set down her 
tray of sweets and carried the baby from the room. Its 
cries could be heard faintly in a distant part of the house. 

“Oh, lady, but you are young and inexperienced!” 



Jasmine 


254 

cackled the old mother of twenty children. “Let me 
give you some advice. Put a little opium under your 
finger nails and let the baby suck it. You won’t have 
any more trouble with her. She will sleep night and 
day.” 

“Or make some baby syrup,” advised another experi¬ 
enced matron. “After the sap has been collected from 
the poppy pods, save the skins of the capsules. Boil 
these poppy skins with water and add a little sugar. 
Whenever the little one becomes irritable, give her a sip 
of the syrup. She will soon quiet down.” 

“It is well to make baby syrup every summer,” spoke 
up a younger woman, who had two small children with 
her, “for you will always have a baby. And the older 
children like it, too.” 

When Mustapha Khan came to his wife’s apartment 
several hours later, after all the guests had gone, he lis¬ 
tened thoughtfully as Farrukh repeated the names which 
the guests had suggested. 

“I like none of them,” he said finally. “For several 
days I have been thinking of a name. I should like to 
name her Iran.” 

“Iran?” Farrukh repeated the word slowly. “Iran? 
The name of our country? But it is the custom—” 

“Yes, I know,” her husband replied. “The custom is 
to choose from the names proposed by the Seventh Day 
guests. But, Farrukh, let us not bind our child with 
all the customs of the past. Tonight, when I came in, 



Wishes Fulfilled 


255 


Mahmud’s woman at the gate said the baby had cried 
a long time and she wanted to send you some baby 
syrup. I say no, no! Opium is the curse of our people, 
and that is one practice we shall not use on this child. 
Other customs may not be so harmful, and there are 
many we can disregard. Let us rear our little one with 
intelligence. Let us make her a true child of the new 
day. 

“Are you willing to do this, Farrukh? Many women 
of your acquaintance—the older ones—will ridicule you. 
They will even predict horrible things for your child. 
Are you willing?” 

“Yes, Mustapha, I will try,” Farrukh answered with 
hesitation. “I shall not mind their ridicule. But your 
own mother, Mas’udeh Khanoum! She will be a thorn 
in the flesh. It is she I would fear.” 

The fear of Mas’udeh’s scornful opposition, however, 
was short-lived. While winter held the city in its cold¬ 
est grip, during the days of Chahar-Chahar, an order 
came to the Department of Finance for Mustapha 
Khan’s transfer to Teheran. 

The post which carried this order had been delayed 
many days by heavy snows which had blocked the 
mountain roads. Icy blasts had piled the snow in mam¬ 
moth drifts on the plateaus and choked the narrow, 
walled-in passes until they were hopelessly impassable, 
and the weight of many snows had broken down tele¬ 
graph lines. For two weeks Hamadan had been cut off 



256 


Jasmine 


from the outside world. Then long-legged camels had 
struggled through with the precious mail sacks. 

In the office of the Department of Finance, Mustapha 
Khan’s colleagues were discussing his promotion. Why 
was he being thus honored? And why did the promo¬ 
tion come at this time? 

“ Ch’ars \onam! What petition shall I make?” Mus¬ 
tapha Khan replied laughingly, with a shrug. “I know 
no more about it than the rest of you.” 

“It is this,” the Chief explained. “You recall the re¬ 
port I received from Teheran, in which Mustapha Khan 
was commended for his work in Ispahan. Because of his 
discovery, other investigators were able to trace an enor¬ 
mous cache to Bushire. The smugglers must have real¬ 
ized that we had knowledge of their supply at Bushire, 
for that particular ship we suspected finally left the gulf, 
sailing away with only a small legitimate cargo. And 
we know positively that the intended cargo is still some¬ 
where near Bushire.” 

Farrukh heard the news with joy and regret and fear 
intermingled: joy in Mustapha’s excitement and the 
prospect of living in the great capital city. Regret that 
she must now go so far from her family, and fear that 
she must make her home among strangers, in a place 
where everything would be so different from all that 
to which she was accustomed. 

The fear was intensified when Shokat flatly refused 
to go along. “Two days’ journey!* Two whole days in 



Wishes Fulfilled 


257 


a fast-moving mawsheen. Why, that would take one 
to the end of the earth, degairl No. I return to Tuhis- 
tan.” 

“But you must come with me for a time,” Farrukh 
begged. “I shall know no one in that great city. And 
you would not want a stranger to care for the little Iran, 
would you?” 

Tears rolled down the cheeks of the old \ulfat. An¬ 
other nurse for her adored one? Ah, that it should be! 
But she held steadfastly to her decision. “No, no, no!” 
she cried. “The years have brought me no love for new 
places. I return, return to Tuhistan.” 

And with frenzied energy she turned to the packing 
of mattresses, quilts, samovars, trunkfuls of shawls and 
other clothing, the bridal beauty box and mirror, the 
silver dishes and spoons, the engraved tray from Ispahan 
—all the odds and ends of living that must now go to 
the new home, so far away. 

“May your way through life be bright!” cried Far¬ 
rukh from her heart, when at length the day came for 
their departure. 

“Your mercy has been great,” replied Shokat. “Would 
that your way and mine were one! And may Allah’s 
protection go with you and the master and the little one, 
even to Teheran.” 



XXIV 

FORWARD STEPS 

Whether a visit to a remote planet would have aroused 
greater wonder in the mind of the village bride than the 
strange sights which fascinated Farrukh on her arrival 
in Teheran, it would be difficult to say. 

The broad, abandoned moat that edged the city walls, 
the gleaming glazed tiles in the towering Kazvin Gate 
through which they entered the city, the broad straight 
streets which crossed at right angles without a twist or 
turn, and the houses which boldly faced the street, un- 
258 















Forward Steps 


259 


sheltered by garden and front walls, brazenly inviting 
passing scrutiny—all this amazed Farrukh. 

But when she beheld women on the street with un¬ 
veiled faces, without, indeed, even a street veil across 
their shoulders, her amazement grew to consternation. 

“What kind of place is this,” she asked her husband 
fearfully that evening, “where women allow men to see 
their faces? Why are not those bold creatures put off 
the streets?” 

Mustapha Khan was puzzled. How could he explain 
the laying aside of a custom which for centuries had 
been part of the Mohammedan woman’s life? Part of 
her life? No, not only part, but the very symbol of 
Mohammedan womanhood. 

“This is but one evidence,” he said finally, “of the 
many forward steps which our people are beginning to 
take under the present Shah. Those unveiled women 
were respectable; and they were Persians, not for¬ 
eigners.” 

“But the Koran! the Prophet!” Farrukh exclaimed. 
“They say that women must be protected. I should be 
afraid to have men see my face. It is not right.” 

“Yes, women must be protected, Little Jasmine. But 
I don’t think the Prophet meant merely that they should 
be protected by a veil. 

“The presence of many foreigners in our capital, and 
the influence of high officials whose wives return from 
a sojourn in Europe without their veils, have had much 



26 o 


Jasmine 


to do with fostering this new freedom. Even the Shah 
himself favors the unveiling of women. And I should 
not be surprised if it were first permitted and then re¬ 
quired throughout the kingdom before many more years 
have passed.” 

As they set out in a droshhy on the second day in this 
amazing city to inspect the new home, Farrukh won¬ 
dered fearfully whether it would be one of those feranghi 
houses, two stories high of kiln-fired cream brick built 
close to the street without the protection of a garden 
wall. So it was with relief and joy that she heard Mus- 
tapha Khan order the driver to stop before the gate of 
a walled-in garden near the Yusefabad Gate. 

She held her baby close, as she stepped from the car¬ 
riage and waited at a respectful distance while Mustapha 
Khan knocked. A long conversation with the gate¬ 
keeper ensued. The servant wanted to assure himself 
first that the strangers were entitled to enter the garden. 
Then he threw open the gate. 

Towering cypress and spreading chinar trees gave the 
garden a beauty unfamiliar to the eyes of the Hamadanis. 
The garden itself centered in a large, oblong pool ele¬ 
vated about a foot above its surroundings. Around it 
were the outlines of flower beds and paths in geomet¬ 
rical arrangement, and groves of trees in artless grouping. 

These, the all-important features, Farrukh noticed 
first. Then she looked beyond, toward a long, low, 
trailing house whose every room—except, perhaps, the 



Forward Steps 


261 


kitchen—opened onto a long recessed verandah. The 
three walls of the verandah were finished with a fine, 
white plaster and broken at regular intervals by long 
windows that reached to the floor. These swung inward 
and served equally well for doors. 

The first room the visitors entered was long and 
spacious. A ceiling of palest green caught Farrukh’s 
attention at once. Hand-carved in the delicately tinted 
plaster was an exquisite design of garlands of blossoms 
and slender, curving leaves. Farrukh was entranced. 
Mustapha Khan smiled. 

“And what does this recall?” he asked. 

“The palaces of Ispahan,” she answered slowly, remi¬ 
niscently. “The palaces of Ali Kapu and Chihel Setoun. 
Their walls and ceilings were covered with it. I never 
dreamed, when I saw those panels, that I might some 
day actually live in a house with such beauty.” 

“We are indeed fortunate,” Mustapha Khan told her. 
“Many other houses in Teheran and a few in Hamadan 
have this carved gatch decoration, but none, I think, has 
the equal of this. 

“This particular work is comparatively recent. The 
house was built by a prince of the former dynasty only 
about fifty years ago, but it is a fine example of an art 
which flourished best several centuries ago. 

“Many people today do not appreciate it. And in the 
ruined city of Rei, where a large wall section of it was 
found, the workmen broke up the plaster and melted off 



262 


Jasmine 


the gold leaf with which the design had been picked 
out.” 

“Shall we really dwell in this beautiful place?” Far- 
rukh questioned, hardly daring to believe that the love¬ 
ly house and enchanting garden were really to be theirs. 

“I signed the contract yesterday,” Mustapha Khan 
assured her, “a lease for one year. Later, perhaps, I may 
buy it, but that will depend on many things.” 

Farrukh counted the rooms and windows, estimated 
the floor space, and planned the arrangement of the rugs. 
Then she inspected the kitchen. 

Festoons of smoky cobwebs clouded the corners and 
ceiling. Dust lay thick in the niches. A bulky Russian 
stove displayed broken tiles urgently in need of repair. 
Farrukh moved about gingerly to keep the baby safe 
from contact with the dirt. 

“What an abode!” she exclaimed. “A reception room 
fit for a prince and a kitchen fit for the dogs! It is 
unbelievable! Mustapha, where shall I find servants in 
this strange city? This one room alone will require an 
army to clean it.” 

The gatekeeper, who had followed them from room 
to room, now spoke. 

“May I be your sacrifice, but no one else looks at the 
kitchen when they examine a house. The reception 
room is what matters most. But tomorrow I will send 
my woman and the girls to clean it. You shall see! 

“And I can easily find servants for you, the best in 



Forward Steps 


263 


the city. My uncle is a gardener; he is even now looking 
for employment. My brother for many years was a cook 
and would cheerfully give up his present work to return 
to the pots and kettles. And my oldest daughter I would 
gladly permit to enter the \hanoums service as a \ulfat . 
She is old enough to be married, but I have no dowry 
for her. It is a pity! But she is a good worker, and she 
could care for the little one,” the man concluded shrewd¬ 
ly, as he observed Farrukh shift her bundled baby to 
the other arm. 

‘‘He is almost too helpful,” Farrukh commented un¬ 
der her breath to her husband. The gatekeeper had 
turned to open another door for them. “But what can 
I do? I must have someone immediately.” 

Mustapha watched the man go into the next room. 

“He must at least be dependable, else the owner would 
not have kept him here as caretaker when the garden 
was unoccupied.” 

“But would his daughter be neat and clean? I would 
not have her touch my baby if she were otherwise. O, 
would that old Fatima had come with us!” 

The gatekeeper returned from his little excursion, led 
them through other rooms and back to the beautiful 
reception room. There they lingered a moment and 
then started toward the door. 

“Go into the street and call a droshty for me,” Mus¬ 
tapha instructed the servant, and soon he and Farrukh 
were riding back to their temporary abode. 



264 


Jasmine 


Mustapha Khan then betook himself to the Depart¬ 
ment of Finance, where various underlings examined 
his credentials officiously before they reluctantly ad¬ 
mitted him to the Rais, the Head of the Department. 
With the Rais was the Director of Internal Revenue. 
Ceremoniously the Rais summoned a servant to bring 
tea, politely inquired details of the journey from Hama- 
dan, and eventually arrived at the purpose of the con¬ 
ference. 

Mustapha Khan, he explained, had been recommend¬ 
ed to him as one who was absolutely trustworthy and 
who had already untangled many a knot for the de¬ 
partment through his skill and insight. Then he con¬ 
tinued: 

“Such a man the Director of Internal Revenue needs 
at this moment to assist him in a delicate piece of work. 
He has maps and plans of the department, reports of 
officials in every province, and communications from 
various foreign representatives of the Committee on 
International Opium Control, as well as several inter¬ 
cepted code messages of the smugglers. All these will 
be at your disposal. You are to study them carefully. 
Then you will be ready to assist him in the plan he has 
just outlined to me.” 

In the succeeding days Mustapha Khan pored over 
all the director’s papers. Then he turned his attention 
to steamship sailing notices, freighter schedules, and the 
history of certain vessels and their officers. He studied 



Forward Steps 


265 


the personnel of numerous importing companies in 
Europe and America and of manufacturing and export¬ 
ing companies in India and Iraq. And he discovered 
some surprising facts. . . . 

Farrukh had scarcely removed her veil when the gate¬ 
keeper’s daughter appeared, ready for an interview with 
her prospective mistress. She was short and fat and 
had a pleasant smile. And she was clean! 

“Praise the Lord!” Farrukh murmured to herself. 

The girl Esmat assured Farrukh that she had helped 
care for her four younger brothers and sisters and that 
she was competent to care for the baby. Whereupon 
Farrukh handed the little Iran to her at once, glad to 
be relieved of the unaccustomed, exacting task. 

With a nurse in charge of the baby, Farrukh was now 
free to make the round of calls which is expected of any 
newcomer. She had also to visit the shops and purchase 
all the articles needful for the new home, those which 
had not been brought from Hamadan—dishes, tea 
glasses, pots and kettles, water jugs, storage jars, and 
staple foods. Her mode of life was not to be altered 
appreciably by its city environment. 

But first she must call on the wives of Mustapha’s 
official acquaintances. That was imperative. As a pro¬ 
test to the shocking practice of other women who went 
about unveiled, Farrukh held her chuddur more close¬ 
ly than ever about her face each time she went into the 
streets of this bewildering, great city. 



266 


Jasmine 


Not yet ready to accept the idea of unveiling, Far- 
rukh was nevertheless eager to adopt many of the other 
innovations to which other women were already accus¬ 
tomed. On paying her first call in official circles, she 
was not given an opportunity to remove her shoes at 
the door; and on entering the room, she was invited to 
sit on what seemed to her a large wooden frame. A 
Morris chair, her hostess called it, and it was one of a 
small squad of cushioned chairs which flanked one side 
of the room. 

Stiffly perched high in the air, Farrukh was uncom¬ 
fortably conscious of her shoes and wished with all her 
heart that she could sit on the floor with her toes tucked 
inconspicuously beneath her. The older woman must 
have guessed her unfamiliarity with things foreign. 

“You have just arrived in Teheran?” she asked. 

“Just a few days ago. We have a garden near the 
Yusefabad Gate, but the house will not be ready for 
several days yet.” 

“And you have no furnishings yet?” 

“None, except the cushions and rugs we brought from 
Hamadan.” 

“Then let me tell you where to go. There is a car¬ 
penter in the Big Bazaar—one Ohannes, an Assyrian. 
He made my chairs, of solid walnut with an inlaid pat¬ 
tern across the top. When he delivers them to you, all 
that will remain to be done is to put cushions in your 
best saddlebags and use them in the chairs.” 



Forward Steps 


267 


With all the zeal of one conveying good news, the 
woman then told Farrukh where and how to buy the 
furnishings for her new home, the dark little cubbyhole 
shops in the bazaar where one could get the best hand¬ 
made window draperies, the strange gaudy shops on the 
imposing business street—the Islamboul—where the 
most surprising jeranghi merchandise was to be had— 
pictures and clocks and dishes, silver knives and forks, 
food in tins, clothing—yes, even blouses that reached 
below the knee and were worn without trousers! 

Without delay, Farrukh visited Ohannes, the Assyr¬ 
ian. And when the six new Morris chairs were finished, 
a hammal roped them to his back and carried them in 
three trips to the house near Yusefabad Gate. There 
they were arranged in a stiff row the length of the re¬ 
ception room, to the obvious delight of Farrukh and the 
great satisfaction of Mustapha Khan, who was happy 
that his wife could adjust herself so readily to her new 
environment. 

“With such fine chairs, we could entertain the Shah 
himself!” he remarked jokingly. 

“Truly?” Farrukh knew not where to draw the line 
of incredibility in this great city where so many strange 
things were happening. 

“Ho! Ho! Little Jasmine! If you could see the 
beautiful Marble Throne or the gorgeous Peacock one 
encrusted with jewels, you would know that he would 
never come to our humble dwelling.” 



268 


Jasmine 


So Farrukh learned new ways and discovered many 
new interests as the spring days lengthened and bright¬ 
ened, and the snow line retreated on the slopes of the 
Elburz mountains behind Teheran, leaving only Mt. 
Demavend, that Persian Fuji-Yama, sheathed in glis¬ 
tening white. 

Farrukh had rapidly grown used to many of the 
strange manners of the capital, and now wanted to try 
the most daring. A small, six-mile railway ran from 
Teheran to the ancient suburb of Rei. Each year thou¬ 
sands of visitors made pilgrimage to Rei to visit the 
little shrine of Shah Abdul Azim. But few of them 
ever gave much attention to the dreary ruins of a civi¬ 
lization that dated back thousands of years. 

Therefore, when Farrukh proposed to her husband 
that they make a gardesh to Rei, he enthusiastically con¬ 
sented to the plan. In his reading he had encountered 
references to the antiquity of Rei and was eager to see 
the remains of its ancient civilization. 

Although a caravan road followed the same route as 
the railway, Farrukh insisted on riding the train and 
found the ride even more exciting than the motor car 
journey to Ispahan or a ride in the horse-drawn trolley 
cars of Teheran. True, the engine puffed black smoke 
which blew back into their faces, and the cars jerked 
and bumped. But what was a little discomfort compared 
to the privilege of riding in a house on wheels and at 
such great speed! 





In many places the walls were fifty feet high 

































Forward Steps 


271 


Arrived at the terminal, most o£ the passengers has¬ 
tened at once to the shrine. Farrukh looked longingly 
toward its dome and minarets patterned in diagonal 
stripes of glazed tile, but she turned obediently toward 
her husband and followed him about the dusty ruins. 
After all, the train ride had been her real reason for 
making the trip. Making a pilgrimage had been only 
her excuse. 

Mustapha Khan stepped warily over the ground and 
cautioned Farrukh to watch her step carefully, for the 
surface was marked by pits and wells, unexpected hol¬ 
lows, and the half distinguishable ruins of tombs and 
towers. 

Remains of the wall which had surrounded the city 
were well preserved in various places. Outside the wall 
were evidences of the citadel with its walls of prodigious 
thickness and its fortress-like towers. In many places 
the walls were fifty feet high, and time and weather had 
not been able to obliterate the outlines of the sun-dried 
bricks which composed it. Everywhere within that deso¬ 
late area were scattered bits of broken pottery. 

Mustapha Khan eagerly searched for a choice frag¬ 
ment, a souvenir of this visit. In the loose soil near one 
of the great towers he unearthed it, a tiny clay bowl of 
iridescent hue which powdered his fingers as he 
touched it. 

“Mashallah!” he exclaimed in wonder. “I did not 
expect to find anything like this. Why, it must be three 



272 


Jasmine 


thousand years old! In a foreign museum I once saw a 
vessel which had this same flaky glaze. It was very 
ancient, and was protected in a glass case.” 

“How do you know that the bowl is so ancient? Per¬ 
haps Rei itself is not so old?” Farrukh questioned. 

“Books of history tell us that it must have been a 
flourishing city twelve centuries before the Hejira. 
Tradition even says that it was founded by the first 
king of Iran about five thousand years ago. And it is 
a known fact that Haroun al-Raschid, that great ruler 
of Baghdad, was born at Rei less than a hundred and 
fifty years after the Hejira.” 

“What a lecture on history you have pronounced!” 
Farrukh exclaimed, when he had finished. “I am sure 
it is time for us to return to the railway. Indeed, I find 
the interior of the train much more interesting than 
these crumbling bricks and broken water jars!” 

“Then it will give you something to remember and 
think about while I am away,” Mustapha Khan an¬ 
nounced abruptly. “This morning the Director and I 
felt that the moment we have been awaiting has arrived. 
All our plans have been carefully laid and need only a 
match to set off the powder. Tomorrow morning I am 
to take a special airplane to Baghdad, pick up a valu¬ 
able passenger there, and go to Langeh on the Gulf. I 
shall have to remain there until the expected develop¬ 
ments occur. I shall be gone only a few days at the 
most, but much will happen in that time.” 




XXV 

THAT WHICH IS MUSK 

While Hamadan lay buried under heavy snows and 
Teheran shivered in occasional flurries of snow, the ter¬ 
rific heat in Baghdad lessened and travelers rejoiced. 
Hakim, the miracle doctor of Baghdad, spent his days 
wandering from one caravanserai to another, writing 
prayers to ward off fevers, mixing black salve for the 
afflicted, reciting incantations to drive out devils, and 


273 










Jasmine 


£74 

keeping his eye and ear ever alert for travelers who 
might have suspicious baggage. 

“So you come from Kermanshah, master?” he would 
disarmingly project himself into a conversation. “They 
say great pictures are carved on the side of a mountain 
near that city. Have you seen it, the Besitoun? And 
where do you go, friend?” 

“To Damascus, perhaps,” the traveler answered sharp¬ 
ly. “But it is said, ‘Ask not a traveler his destination.’ 
So, hereafter hold your tongue against such imperti¬ 
nence.” 

“Oh, master! I only wish to write a prayer for you— 
for an anna, of course; yes, or even for less, to carry you 
safely across the desert.” 

“Go lose yourself!” the other retorted angrily, and 
walked away. 

Whether he met with rebuff or a smile or a jest in 
return, Hakim continued his questioning way. He wan¬ 
dered along the shores of the broad Tigris river, casually 
noticed the little launches chugging importantly up and 
down the stream, observed the melon men unloading 
their awkward, round gufas —baskedike boats made of 
ribs of the palm leaf, interwoven with flexible twigs and 
caulked watertight with pitch—and he watched the sun¬ 
burnt farmers patiently poling their inflated skin rafts. 

One such raft was moored to the shore. Gaunt, sun- 
blackened laborers clothed only in white cotton panta¬ 
loons rolled to the knee, open shirt, and long turbans, 



That Which Is Musk 


2 75 


sang a rhythmic tuneless chant as they carried the cargo 
ashore. 

“I am Hakim, the doctor,” the spectator informed the 
laborers. “Have you any ills? I will cure your afflic¬ 
tions. My fame has traveled from the Tigris even unto 
the Euphrates.” 

“That is a great distance, uncle, but we travel far¬ 
ther,” one of the men jokingly retorted. “We go from 
Baghdad to the Gulf.” 

“And what do you carry on that fine raft? Wheat?” 

“Yes, we brought a great load of wheat from the 
south.” 

“And do you go back empty-handed?” 

“Empty-handed when the current is with us!” the 
men scoffed. “Where is your vast wisdom, uncle? We 
take a heavier load when the current carries us along. 
This time we take twenty-and-four casks of rosewater.” 

Joking with the loaders, advising the fishermen, warn¬ 
ing the donkey boys, entertaining the foreigners who 
came and went on the desert transport line, taking ad¬ 
vantage of every opportunity to engage boatmen and 
camel drivers and travelers in conversation, old Hakim 
learned of every shipment of rugs and wheat, of cotton 
and tea and sugar, of outgoing perfumery from the 
makers of attar of roses, and the incoming stocks of soap 
and brushes and hats. These things, and more, Hakim 
learned in many weeks of vigilance. 

Then, one day in early spring, a Persian official at 



Jasmine 


276 

Langeh, the gun-running point on the Persian Gulf, 
lowered his field glasses. 

“For forty days I have watched that ship,” he an¬ 
nounced, “and now I have my reward. They have kept 
up steam every day, but today they have put on more. 
They will sail shortly. Let us be off! ” 

The government motorboat cut the choppy surface 
of the water. With the official flag of red, white, and 
green fluttering importandy, it nosed straight for the 
shabby little freighter. 

A command on deck cut the air. Hands reached for 
the rope ladder to jerk it up. Too late! The officers 
below had seized it. A knife flashed—to sever the cord. 
A shot splintered the rail. The officers were on board. 

It was but the work of a moment to subdue the cap¬ 
tain and crew. The gulf was guarded. They could not 
have hoped to make their escape. 

“Where is it, the opium?” Agha Said Khan com¬ 
manded. “I represent His Majesty’s revenue service.” 

“We carry no opium,” the captain denied the charge, 
“only the usual miscellaneous cargo. Search us, if you 
wish.” 

Everywhere the revenue officers searched for the drug 
—in the engine storeroom, in suspicious-looking petrol 
tins, under the coal in the engine room, around the 
boiler, under the sails, in the passengers’ trunks and 
chests. They tested for false bottoms the palm-leaf bas¬ 
kets of certain passengers bound for Karachi, and they 



That Which Is Musk 


277 


examined the seams of the life-belts to note any recent 
stitching. All these common places of hiding they knew. 

Then they turned to the cargo: rugs from Kashan 
for a London importer, casks of rosewater from a famous 
perfumer in Baghdad for his agent in Karachi, crates 
and goatskin bags of luscious golden dates from Shiraz 
for New York. 

The search was slow and tedious, for only two men 
could be spared from guarding the crew. Several of the 
casks of rosewater were tested and sounded full of 
liquid; a random bale of rugs was unwrapped; a long, 
steel needle was thrust into each lot of dates, withdrawn, 
and smelled for the telltale odor of opium. 

“Somewhere on board it is hidden,” Agha Said Khan 
declared to his men. “We must look again, more thor¬ 
oughly. We know—” 

Splash! Splash! 

“What was that?” the officer shot the words at the 
captain. 

“I don’t know. Probably the cook emptying his gar¬ 
bage.” 

“I thought you said all hands were on deck. The 
lieutenants saw no one when they made their rounds in 
the search.” 

While the others kept the crew covered, one official 
stepped to the rail. A wooden cask, no, two casks, 
bobbed on the water a few yards from the keel. 

The officer nodded to the lieutenant. The latter pulled 



278 


Jasmine 


a rocket from his pocket, set it up, and touched off a 
match. A ball of fire soared into the air and burst in a 
glory of color. Instantly a dozen motor boats shot out 
from the distant shore and converged toward the 
freighter. A half hundred soldiers and police were at 
hand within a very short time. Agha Said Khan relaxed 
his watch momentarily. 

A swarthy fist knocked the gun from his hand. The 
lieutenants were covered. In a flash the crew and their 
two passengers swarmed toward the opposite rail, their 
gunmen backing away rapidly but warily. Over the rail 
they all dived, into the blue Persian waters, striking out 
for the shore line far from the city wharves. 

When the reserve forces climbed on deck, they found 
only five nonplussed Persian officials roundly cursing 
one another for the blunder. However, in a few min¬ 
utes they had pointed their motor boats toward the swim¬ 
mers and were fishing them out one by one. A few had 
managed to escape, but their prize—the captain—had 
been too corpulent, too slow to outdistance his pursuers. 
This time the officers took the precaution to handcuff 
their prisoners. Returning to the freighter, they fished 
up the two wooden casks, left a small detachment on 
guard, and proceeded toward the shore. 

A close examination of the casks disclosed a small, in¬ 
conspicuous cross on each. They contained the opium, 
many pounds of the square, one-pound cakes. 

A speedy trial of the captain resulted in a sentence 



That Which Is Musk 


279 


of two months’ imprisonment and a heavy fine. By 
nightfall he was safely behind bars. The testimony of 
Hakim, whom Mustapha Khan had brought from Bagh¬ 
dad in readiness for the coup, revealed that the captain 
was well aware of the nature of his cargo, as were most 
of the crew. 

On board the freighter the watchers were boisterously 
engaged in a game of dice. They had but to wait until 
a trustworthy crew was sent out by the company’s 
agents, vouched for by the local port authorities. All 
the crew had escaped or been carried ashore as prisoners. 

All the crew? What then could be that sound— 
half moan, half groan—that came to them from below 
deck? Was it a jinn? Had one of their number inad¬ 
vertently stepped on an evil spirit in the dim lantern 
light? The moan floated nearer and nearer. It was 
behind them. They almost felt its warm breath on their 
necks. They hid their faces in their hands, and shrank 
within themselves, trying to make themselves invisible 
to the oncoming jinn. 

“Peace be with you! ” wheezed the voice. 

Fearfully they looked up. It was a man, his face 
drawn and white—almost green—in the flickering light. 

“In the name of Allah, take me to dry land.” 

“Who are you? One of the crew?” 

The man trembled and hung his head. 

“Why did you not try to escape with the others? 
Your life is worth less than nothing here.” 



28 o 


Jasmine 


“May I be your sacrifice, my life is almost gone, any¬ 
way. I am a Hamadani; I cannot swim. I have never 
been on the water before. This vessel rocks worse than 
a camel. I beg you! I implore you! Take me to the 
dry land, even though it be to jail.” He staggered to 
the rail to relieve his seasickness. 

For Abbas had helped bring the two specially marked 
casks on board at the last moment, and had had no inten¬ 
tion of staying. His escape cut off by the arrival of the 
government officials, he had miraculously kept himself 
out of sight and daringly thrown the two casks over¬ 
board in an attempt to destroy the damaging evidence. 
But a few hours of the motion of the sea promptly 
brought him up on deck with a plea for mercy. 

The Bureau of Customs now had its case complete, 
and the work of Mustapha Khan loomed large in the 
completed picture. Suddenly swooping down on opera¬ 
tives in many cities, the authorities rounded them all 
together and brought them to trial in Teheran. 

There they were—a caravanserai owner from Tabriz, 
the Ispahan shawl merchant, a Bushire shopkeeper, a 
donkey driver of Kermanshah and his club-footed wife, 
the map-making colonel of Hamadan and his local un¬ 
derlings, and a thickset, heavily bearded man in thick 
glasses. All these and many more were caught. 

The Teheran newspaper carried a long account of the 
spectacular coup. Great praise was given the Depart¬ 
ment of Finance for its cleverness and to the Bushire 



That Which Is Musk 


281 


and Langeh port authorities for their “extreme bravery 
in the face of great danger.” 

Mustapha Khan chuckled as his wife leaned against 
his arm and read the lines with him. 

“From all that I heard,” he said, “they were only a 
little braver than old Abbas. They merely had the ad¬ 
vantage of a surprise attack and really did not make 
the most of it, at that!” 

“Nevertheless, they succeeded and you have profited 
by their success,” Farrukh reminded him. 

“Yes, you speak the truth,” Mustapha Khan conceded. 
“The Minister at Teheran would not have cared par¬ 
ticularly or even known about my achievements, except 
for this seizure.” 

“And yet,” Farrukh continued, “the poet says other¬ 
wise. That is musk which discloses itself by its smell, 
and not what the perfumers impose upon us:—If a man 
be expert in any art he need not tell it, for his own skill 
will show it.” 

“Beh! beh! behl That was rare quoting, Farrukh! 
For indeed the opium was still opium, although the 
casks were labeled rose water.” 

“You mistake my meaning,” Farrukh replied impa¬ 
tiently. “I am sure that the government would have 
recognized your achievements in time.” 

“And you, Little Jasmine, for all your learning, you 
still are unable to know when I am merely teasing you. 

“You have such an eager, inquiring mind that you 



282 


Jasmine 


have often been a helpful companion to me. And yet, 
at other times that same mind spins around like the 
jasmine petal in my teacup, and you are still only a 
pretty child. Which are you really, Farrukh?” 

“Both,” she smiled brightly, and pushed the news¬ 
paper away. 

TAMAM SHUD 




PERSIAN WORDS AND EXPRESSIONS 


agha. Sir. 

ajab. exclamation of astonishment, 
aleph. A; first letter of the alphabet, 
alhamdulallah. Praise the Lord! 

Allah. God. 

angoush-pech. Twisted Finger, or Finger Twist; a soft, 
divinity candy, 
anna, two and a half cents, 
arrak. distilled liquor, 
askari. a species of grapes. 

bah or beh. an exclamation with many shades of meaning. 

bandeh. slave. 

bazaar, a shop district. 

bey. B; second letter of the alphabet. 

Besitoun. location of ancient rock carvings. 

Bismillah. “In the name of God.” A pious utterance at 
the commencement of a journey, a meal, or a piece of 
work. 

Chahar-Chahar. “Four-FourFour days of midwinter, 
ch'arskonam. an exclamation or retort indicating indiffer¬ 
ence, or inability to explain; literally, “What petition 
shall I make?” 

charvadar. driver of fourfooted animals, 
chash'm. “By my eyes!” an exclamation of assent. 
Chihel-i-Bezurgh. The Big Forty; first forty days of winter, 
chinar. sycamore or plane tree. 

cbuddur. long, semicircular robe—black on the street, col¬ 
ored indoors—worn by women. 

Darreh. The valley; a ravine in the foothills above Hama- 
dan. 

dastmal. a square of cloth, or handkerchief, 
degair. Indeed! 


283 


284 


Jasmine 


dokan. small shop, 
dozar. twice a 40^dndi measure, 
droshky. phaetondike carriage, 
dugh. diluted clabber. 

farsagh. three and a half miles; the distance a camel can 
travel in one hour, 
feranghi. foreign, foreigner, 
feranghistan. foreign parts, 
gardesh. an outing, or stroll for pleasure, 
gatch. a kind of plaster, 
ghalimkar. block prints on cloth, 
giveh. flat, heelless slipper with crocheted cotton top. 
Gulistan. “The Rose Garden.” A poetic work by Sa'adi. 
gufa. a basketlike boat. 

hammal. porter; one who carries burdens on his back. 
Hegira, the flight of Mohammed from Mecca, A.D. 622. 
Hosh bi haliat. An expression meaning “Good for you!” 
Imams, successors to the Prophet. 

Insh'allah. If God wills. 

jevaz. police permit to travel from city to city, 
jinn, genii of Arabian Nights. 

kadkhoda. headman of the village; resident agent for land' 
lord. 

khan. lord. 

khanoum. lady. 

kharbuseh. a species of melon. 

Khuda bikunad. God grant that it may be! 

kibob. small piece of skewered meat. 

kishmish. the kind of grapes used for making raisins. 

kismet, fate; destiny. 

kran. coin valued at ten cents at par. 

kulfat. maidservant. 



Persian Words and Expressions 


285 


kurseh. wooden frame covered by a quilt, under which is 
placed a pan of coals, 
maidon. any open place. 

Mashallah. literally, By God’s will! Exclamation of pleas' 
ant astonishment or wonder, 
masjid. mosque. 

mawsheen. Persianized form of the word machine, 
mast, clabber. 

mirza. teacher; title of respect often bestowed indiscrimi' 
nately on those who can read and write, 
mobarak bashad. May it be blessed! 

Muharram. month of mourning, 
mullah. Moslem priest. 

No Ruz. New Year’s. 

osh. a dish of diced vegetables with sour milk gravy, 
pilau, steamed rice, 
qalian. the water pipe. 

qan'at. underground water channel for irrigation. 

Rahim. The Compassionate. 

Rahmon. The Merciful. 

Rais. The head of the department, 
sahra. desert, 
salaam, peace. 

salaam-n-aleikum. Peace be with you! 
sang-i-sheer. the Stone Lion. 

Shah Nameh. The King’s Book; a poetic writing of Firdusi. 
shatan. Satan. 

sherbat. a refreshing drink of fruit juices, 
shirinee. sweets; cakes or candy. 

Tamum Shud. The end, or, It is finished. 

taqcheh. niche in the wall. 

tar. a stringed musical instrument. 



286 


Jasmine 


tariak. opium, 
toman, one dollar at par. 
umbar. storeroom, 
vakil, go-between; broker. 

Yakh Chal. Ice Wells; mountain peak 14,000 feet altitude. 
Yesmeh. Jasmine. 

Persian dates used refer to the Mohammedan lunar cal¬ 
endar which dates from the Hegira A.D. 622. 









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